


Put an ocean and a river between everything, yourself and home

by Sunnyrea



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 39,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It is very uncommon, some would say utterly unattainable, for anyone to live in a district different from that which they were born... But not impossible. </i><br/>The life of Cinna Bell before the 74th Hunger Games.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. District 8

**Author's Note:**

> I took a slight liberty in that Cinna says to Katniss its his first time at the games. I have bended this to mean it is his first time as a main stylist at the games, not his first year involved. (Title from "England," The National)  
> EDIT: I decided to [cast my story](http://littlenotebook.livejournal.com/69011.html) should you want a visual of any kind!

It is very uncommon, some would say utterly unattainable, for anyone to live in a district different from that which they were born – to say nothing of living in the Capitol. Even victors of the hunger games return to their district of origin regardless of their new exalted status or how desolate and dirty their district might be. If you are born in district ten or seven or twelve you die there.

If you join the peacekeepers and leave district two – a change in location only possible with one district and with one job – you retire out after twenty years to die back in the mountains. After all, who would dare to kill a peacekeeper and how many really succumb to “accidents?” In Panem you eat, breathe, suffer, live and die in just one world, unless you are so unlucky as to die in the arena.

If you are born in the districts it is practically unthinkable you would ever change to live a ‘real’ life in the Capitol. But not impossible.

 

Cinna Bell comes into life in December, already the strong hold of winter in district eight. Two siblings precede him in life and another comes three years after, Cinna earning special distinction as the only boy.

Like most that live in district eight, Cinna’s parents work in the factories – long hours, loud machinery turning eighteen hours a day, walls that only keep out the wind not the cold and fabrics made for thousands of people across Panem to protect them from the ravages of their own climates. They make enough money to eat but not enough to be full. Cinna’s parents save when able and somehow through the years, though they learn what it feels like to always be a bit hungry, they never starve.

When Terra Mater was a child she dreamed of blue skies and wished to be a pilot. When Samuel Bell was a child he dreamed of endless woods and wished to be a music teacher. As adults they work in the factories and wish instead for children who have dreams.

Cinna’s eldest sister, Clasta, escapes the factories by reading enough and retaining enough to slot a place as a math teacher at eighteen. (When it comes to factory work and fabric there is many a calculation needed to asses the right amount of yards, of thread, or calibration of the machines so this is no small feat). She fills the evening hours doing tutoring for the higher echelon of district eight: the governor’s children and the high designer brats.

“Those kids,” she tells Cinna as he watches her mend black buttons on his good white shirt, “they learn how to match colors but not to sew. They can tell you black and red strike the eye well but they couldn’t sew on this button.”

Cinna twists one finished button between two fingers and only raises his eyebrows, already the quiet, thinking child his teachers will puzzle over for years. Clasta raises both her eyebrows back and cocks her head.

“You would be surprised at those who balk at picking up a simple needle.”

To Cinna, for who a needle and thread are the most familiar of tools, the revelation certainly is.

Cinna’s second oldest sister works in the factory like their parents before her – long hours and nothing much to show but hands stained different shades of dye forever and money to keep breathing on.

He remembers her green eyes which match his and how he always knew when the week’s dye had been red because, for some reason, it always showed up best against her dark skin.

Years later, when his life has become very very different, Cinna recalls how little he saw and how little he knew of her. Despite his trials – despite the death – Cinna believes Cherra to be the real tragedy of their family, the one with no life at all.

At first, like all children reaching age eleven or twelve, Cinna spends his hours in school then goes for a shift at the factory. He starts at the jean factory, sturdy clothing meant for the districts where the inhabitants work outside or in the dark and dirt like district seven or district eleven. However, when Cinna’s finer needle working and good eye for detail are discovered he transfers up to embroidery. At fourteen he starts bringing in more money than his parents (though they retain real little wealth due to medical bills for their father who suffers from diabetes).

“Such an eye!” says his new bosses.

“The needle moves like it’s just one of his fingers,” Clasta boasts, “no one finer, I mean it!”

“Maybe he could even be a designer some day?” his mother hopes.

Cinna cares little yet for aspirations of greatness; holding a needle relaxes him, following intricate patterns focuses his mind and he never stops until the lines and curves flow perfectly into the shape they should be. He sees without the guiding lines; he knows just where the red should follow the purple and how, when they meet the blue, an ocean he has never seen in life should form over a dress.

When asked why he tries so hard for perfection when he still only works on the simplest of clothing to be sent to places _not_ the Capitol, he only says: “It makes me happy.”

The youngest Bell, as many youngest children are, is the favorite and the favored of the whole Bell family; dearest Cora.

Cora always smiles; Cora always laughs; Cora rarely cries and never yells in anger. Cora knows when you are sad. She brings cookies wrapped in scraps of blue fabric to her sisters and stolen silver thread to her brother. Cora reads old poems to her mother and builds small castles out of cards for their father. Cora dances to the sound of her family breathing at night and every one of them catches her in the act, twirling around their kitchen table.

None of them resent her for her beauty – her heart shaped face and deep chocolate eyes, flecked with gold like her brother’s eyes are. They love her for her steady voice which matches their name and questions always aching to learn more of the world. She watches with large owl eyes and knows just when to comfort or when to leave. They love her because even when she struggles – chemistry lessons on color mixing or toppling her bicycle – or when she fails – real sewing much harder for her than expected for anyone from district eight – she never stops trying again and again.

It is Cora each one of them loves best of all and it is Cora who they lose first.

Their house sits pressed beside two others exactly like it, gray and dull with the stain of factory smog forever on its walls. The house stands taller than it sits wide, two rooms on the first floor then only one each as the stairs at the back left of the house snake upwards three more flights, each floor smaller than the last like a triangle. Their parents take up the second floor along with the house’s only bathroom behind a partition; then Clasta and Cherra on the third and Cinna and Cora up in the attic. Inside the walls are white streaked with every color one could imagine – yellow hand prints following the stairs up from when Cherra first started working with dyes and loved leaving a mark of her new trade; blues all through their parent’s bedroom from their father in the jean factory where Cinna began; green and purple in the main room on the first floor where the whole family makes the holiday baskets together for festival days in the spring; gold trails in the walls of Cinna and Cora’s room because they share a favorite color. The kitchen looks like a veritable painter’s palette from years of fingers missed in washing, home dye jobs to change an old good dress into a new good dress or on the side work to bring in more money. At four years old Cora calls it the ‘Rainbow Room’ and the name sticks.

Though the cracks in the walls let in the cold and one miss step on the stairs sends you tumbling all the way to the bottom with more bruises than not, Cinna wouldn’t trade their house for anything. He steps inside and every color creates a parade of ideas in his head. He sees a sweep of off white and imagines a suit for a wealthy Capitol citizen – egg shell shoulders with a dusty pattern leading down the sleeves into white cuffs and silver gloves, flecks of silver through the front lapels as the white turns purer down and down until the pants look like clear water, just a hint of blue making the wearer into a cloudy day made up only of the most artistic clouds and rain.

Cinna sketches such ideas in his free time.

Most people in his district only work in the factories – they fill one cog in a machine packing finished products into boxes or feeding cloth into dangerous rolling metal or leading thread into holes. Even those who do the finer work of patterns on fabric merely follow the instructions laid out in mindless sweeps of their needles. Only a few people actually design clothing and then usually for a functional purpose. Most of the articles of clothing which district eight produces were thought up long ago to fit for the job the wearer does and never change.

It is only in the Capitol where Cinna sees visions such as his own take shape when he watches the parades every Hunger Games. He dislikes the way so many outfits he sees look like curtains pinned by wire or ship sails trying to make themselves into dresses. The colors match his mind but often the follow through turns only into lunacy. Cinna sees clothing as portraits, as paintings; an outfit should say something, be something.

Cora often peers over his shoulder when he sketches. “I see blue jay.” She’ll try to guess what each outfit represents. “Or is it a seagull?”

“You’ve never really seen a seagull.”

“Well, neither have you.”

He rolls over on his bed so Cora perches back on her heels beside his knees. He holds up his small sketch pad between them and points to the corners on the shoulders of this particular pencil line dress (labels for colors and types of fabric in the margins).

“It’s a peacock. On the edges here you’d use the glisten fabric we make the Capitol, shifting from blue to green when the person moves.” He moves his finger down the length of the dress. “See, the circles at the bottom and how it bunches.” He smiles and lays the pad on his chest. “Should look like feathers.”

“If it were made.”

Cinna’s smile diminishes slightly and he nods. “If.”

Cora shrugs once, smile on her face like a bird or a butterfly. “It should be.”

Cora works after school with their sister Cherra in the dye factory. While Cherra works on the floor mixing dyes and drying fabric, Cora spends the later afternoon hours grinding power from the raw materials they get from the mines in the north and the fields way at the southern dip of their district as well as district eleven. (Cinna has never been to southern district eight, in fact most who think of his district only know about the urban factory north. However, in the south where the weather is a little warmer, fields surround the factories instead of hard dirt and concrete, growing plants to make all manner of colors like indigo or pink or green; though this only makes up a small portion of the district). Unlike Cherra, Cora’s hands do not come home stained. However she always seems to have a tint of whatever color she ground that day clinging to her clothes. When she moves the dust floats behind her swirling like magic seeping from her soul.

When they have time, no school or work, and the winter has yet to become too severe, Cinna and Cora walk the gray streets together. Despite the constant smoke from the factories, Cinna likes walking outdoors. The chill to the air feels more appropriate than inside and bothers him less; after all it should be cold outside in winter.

“I say taffy today!”

In December Cinna and Cora take at least one walk which turns into their ‘sweets’ day. They never really plan it but it always happens. They start off just walking – a snowball for good measure when one of them finds an opening. Then their way eventually leads into the heart of town and down Gooseberry Row where the specialty shops, usually only frequented by those with money to spare, line the sidewalk. They pick from the bakery or the sweet ice parlor or the ice cream shop or, as often happens, the taffy pull.

“You always say taffy,” Cinna chides, grabbing Cora’s gloved hand to warm his own.

Cinna prefers cupcakes but Cora likes taffy.

“Not always, just mostly.”

Cora usually wins.

They buy taffy fresh from the pull, though fresh is still a bit hard in this area but they know no different. Cora goes for lime every time though Cinna attempts to persuade her into trying something different.

“Vanilla?”

“Hmm…”

Three machines which look like hands spin in the window winding taffy back and forth as they watch.

“Maybe peach?”

“That’s a silly flavor for taffy.”

“What about lemon then? That’s close to lime.”

She grins at him. “Now that’s a flavor!”

Cinna only chuckles, buying chocolate for him and lime for her.

They walk every street in town together, up and down rounding each corner to walk up again. They trace the city and eat their taffy. Some days they talk about seam lines and shoe patterns and purple versus indigo or Cora talks about birds while Cinna only listens. Often Cora likes to climb up the ladder of the shoe supply shop to the roof, Cinna following if only to ensure she doesn’t fall, to watch the shift change of the cotton factory. Cinna keeps watch lest any Peacekeepers catch them “trespassing.” Cora tries to imagine what each person thinks as they leave and narrates their inner monologue to Cinna. She comes up with an endless stream of jokes and banal thoughts turned to humor. He likes to listen to her talk just as she likes to watch him design.

In school Cinna sits in the back. He doesn’t actually talk very often. He wouldn’t consider himself quiet only he doesn’t chatter. He prefers to draw to express himself – tall trees and starry skies or the mountains of the Capitol. He will doodle knee high boots layered with intricate circles during his math class and by the time class ends the outfit looks like a supernova but his geometry notes are lacking.

When he feels happy the skirts come out in red pencil, rose petal blouses with lady bug hats.

“Let me guess,” Clasta asks as she spies the yellow lines of a sheer head scarf on his page, “you talked with Blake again today at lunch?”

Cinna humphs and shifts his head down on his arm to hide his wide, embarrassed smile.

When his suits become coal black, gray plaid patches and markings of ‘heavy fabric’ in the margins even the elusive Cherra knows to ask. “What’s wrong? Was it the history test?”

As he gets older and more daring, Cinna tries to put his designs into practice; scraps from work his mother brings home, old clothes with too many holes repurposed, botched dye work from Cherra – whatever Cinna lays flat on a table and cuts into shape. His early projects turn into gloves and hats, items small enough to fit with the pieces he has to work with. Then his family starts to find larger scraps, sneak out left over chunks from yard cut offs, buy rolls of cloth marked down due to defects; they feed his talent because the Bell family helps its own.

“Someone has to make us look like the royalty we are,” his mother half jokes as she presents him with a bolt of silver cloth for his fourteenth birthday.

“I expect proper gloves for Christmas,” his father says.

Cinna smiles and tilts his head. “Solid silver or just accents?”

Cinna spends four days cutting and sewing a skirt for Clasta. The fabric is half cotton, meant to be dyed purple but the dye mixed with too much red and came out more muddy than purple so Cherra scooped it up. The skirt hangs to Clasta’s knees, loose and jagged at the bottom so it ripples thin and light like turkey feathers with wind then changes to thick fox fur when still.

She says, “Sometimes I think the clothes you make really will come to life!”

Cora pages through his sketch book and puts tiny tick marks next to the ones she likes best.

Cinna designs pants which appear to drip like water when the wearer moves. He uses cotton and polyester and polytwillchem and it works though none of them go anywhere so fine to show such a creation off. Cinna sews patches of red and yellow together with gold thread so when the finished product stretches and forms into a hat, Cherra really has a halo. Both creations end up selling at the tri-yearly Free Design market spreading whispers of Cinna’s talent beyond their own factory town.

For Cora’s thirteenth birthday Cinna makes her a dress. It is his best creation up until then – certainly his most time consuming, expensive and difficult – and it is the piece of clothing which will change his life forever.

Cora wears it to that year’s reaping.

The morning of the reaping Cinna’s mother climbs the stairs to their room. She sits at the end of Cora’s bed and smiles at them both.

“Big day.”

Cora and Cinna, still in their sleep wear, only nod.

“Don’t be worried because I’ll be watching you both.” Cinna knows his mother’s gaze cannot actually protect him from the fate of that dreaded glass ball but it eases his nerves regardless.

“Clasta and Cherra have made you breakfast,” a special treat as usually they all take cold oatmeal in bowls on their way out the door, “even eggs for you, Cora.”

Cora smiles, “Is there jam?”

“Gross,” Cinna mutters.

His mother shoots him a ‘hush’ look then nods to Cora. “I hope you’re in the mood for raspberry.”

Cora gasps and Cinna smiles a little. His mother turns her eyes back to him. Cinna tilts his head and only nods; he won’t be afraid.

“Come on.” She pats the sheet of Cora’s bed and stands. “Get dressed, wear something nice but warm.”

Cinna picks his best suit, a plain black thing which has only needed mending once and one of the two he owns. Cora chooses the dress Cinna made.

The predominant color of the dress is red and at first glance that is all one sees – a red dress just to the knee with long sleeves and a bateau neckline. However, when she turns a gold stripe becomes visible running down the back from her left shoulder to bottom right wisp of skirt starting narrow at the top and widening out to about twelve inches across at the bottom. In the center of the stripe, at the small of her back, a large layer bow of gold and red draws the eye, glittering like a jewel. It is then the viewer realizes the gold embellishments actually pepper the entire dress tracing around like a maze of electric current so the red changes to wine and then rose and maroon like lava boiling all over her. The top of the dress hugs her tightly, the sleeves forming diamond shapes at the ends over her wrists, then fans out around her hips so it swishes and curves with movement. The dress appears to be alive with each step Cora takes and one cannot help but stare with awe.

Cinna smiles with a touch of pride as Cora puts the dress on, her hair left loose at her shoulders.

She sees him looking and smiles back. “I may as well be dressed fabulously at this horrible thing, right? Plus I can tell everyone my brother is the best designer there is.” She stops and waves a dismissive hand, “Well, designer without the title.”

Cinna snorts quietly. “So a Peacekeeper can come interrogate us about where I got all that fabric and thread?”

Cora shakes her head. “Did you steal any of it?”

Cinna shrugs. “Maybe.”

“I’ll cover for you.”

Cinna frowns and tries to think if anything on that dress technically is stolen. Does cast off fabric actually count as stolen? 

Cora bops him on the nose abruptly and he blinks back to reality. “Hey!”

“Don’t worry; no one is going to ask anyway.” She swallows once and does a very good job of trying to appear unconcerned. “They’re all going to be thinking about other things.”

Cinna sighs lightly and nods. “Yes, they are.”

Cinna is sixteen years old now; he’s stood through four reapings with three more to go.

He remembers Clasta’s first reaping though he was only seven at the time. It sticks in his memory if only because it was the first reaping which had a direct effect on their household. At seven he did not quite understand the gravity of the day. They all ate hot sausages for breakfast and Clasta dressed up so beautifully, a yellow dress which perfectly complemented the deep brown of her skin. Cinna knew from school the history of the games and had watched the games on public screens every year since he was four but always felt detached, a distant game that wasn’t real. When Patricia Malls’ name rang out over the crowd Cinna’s mother sighed deeply with relief. Cinna saw his parents clasp hands, unshed tears in their eyes. Cinna understood with a smack that from then on every year death might visit their home.

Cinna knows there are more reapings behind him than there are ahead but it only takes one time for his name to be read and just one time for him to leave home forever.

A quick hot breakfast, hugs for luck and then the two of them join the flood of children. When they reach the center of town, a large open pavilion able to fit at least 500 people, Cinna gives Cora’s hand a squeeze just before they separate into girls and boys. They line up by age, Cinna lucky enough to get Blake Speed to his right and his friend Thomas Pike to his left. Cinna smiles for just a moment then turns his eyes to the dais. 

This year their town has earned the distinction of having the selection in person instead of over the monitors. Due to the size of the district, the location of the actual selection changes each year. Their escort Benedict Pepper climbs the stage, his hair canary yellow this year and wearing a cape of blue stopping half way down his back, stiff and shaped like a sail frozen mid wave. Ridiculous.

“Happy 66th Hunger Games, my dear district eight!” He cries out through the microphone. “And may the odds be ever in your favor!”

The governor, her husband, and their five past tributes sit behind Benedict. Cinna’s favorite victor is old Barnes, nearly seventy now. Cinna’s mother told him the story once about how Barnes won his year when he was fifteen by making himself a camouflage tent out of vines so no one could find him, not even the cameras, until they were down to the final seven. Then he killed the other six in one swoop by poisoning the water supply.

“Today we choose our two tributes!” Benedict continues. “Who will have the lucky honor?” He grins and steps to the right over to the girl’s bowl. “And our one lucky lady this year –” he slips his hand into the bowl, pulls out a small square of paper then reads out, “Cora Bell!”

Cinna blinks. He must have heard wrong.

“What did he say?” Cinna mummers.

“Cinna…” Thomas says quietly.

“What did he say?” Cinna repeats. “What did he…” Cinna trails off as Cora steps out of the crowd.

The Peacekeepers form a box around her and march her forward. 

Cinna turns his head left and right in shock. No. This can’t be right. Benedict must have chosen wrong. This has to be wrong!

He wants to scream, ‘No! You can’t!’ but his throat has closed. Cherra is nineteen now, Clasta twenty-one; there is no one who can volunteer for Cora, no one to sacrifice in her place. 

The human cage reaches the steps and makes an opening for Cora to step up.

‘I should volunteer,’ Cinna thinks, ‘I should save her!’

But he can’t; he’s a boy.

Suddenly, Blake grabs Cinna’s hand. Cinna whips his head around in surprise. Cinna shakes his head, confused then Blake flicks his eyes down and Cinna notices how hard his legs are shaking. He has never felt more terrified.

“We have our girl,” Benedict grins and Cinna wants to slap him. “Now, our boy!” He picks a name. “Samuel Lawson!”

Someone screams far back in the stands but Cinna pays no attention as they usher up the boy and Benedict crows congratulations. He fixes his eyes on Cora. 

Cora stands absolutely still in her lava dress, her fingers straight lines down – stiff and unnatural. Only her eyes move, scanning the crowd. He sees them stop for a moment on someone, probably their parents, far back. Then she smiles – bight as a summer sun – and nods reassuring, happy even. After a moment she looks away and finds him among the mass. Though the smile remains and her body does not move, he sees it painted on her face where most others would miss it: fear.

 

The next week is hell – no other word could fit

[“You’ll get a room to yourself for a while, Cinna.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want a room to myself.”

Cora sniffs, her eyes looking everywhere but him and the tears make steady, silent paths down her cheeks. Cinna holds her hand and lets the silence stretch. There is nothing he could say.

“I don’t want to die,” she whispers, before the Peacekeepers bang on the door and drag him away.]

They go to work and school like ghosts, seeing nothing but Cora behind their eyes. They watch her – their darling little once forced to dance – on screens tall as their house. Every day Capitol programs replay the reaping – Cora smiling like it’s truth; The parade through the capitol – Cora and the boy dressed up like patchwork dolls screaming ‘textiles’ in the most obvious way; Rolling stats on the tributes, first round ratings merely off appearance and bets on who will win – Cora near the bottom of most predications; Preview tid bits of the arena – open fields which seem to be spotted with islands of tree clusters; The day of the private judging and scores – Cora with a five. (Cinna has no idea what she may have had to show). One farce after another in a wild swirl. Then the interviews.

As the girl from district eight, Cora’s interview falls near the middle of that evening’s show. They crowd around the TV at home (Thomas’ family lets them borrow theirs), unable to eat dinner, just holding who’s hand is closest. Clasta keeps one arm around their mother’s shoulders while their father paces back and forth behind their chairs. 

“At least we can see her…” Cherra murmurs.

Cinna keeps his eyes locked on the screen. He imagines he could sew a cape, clear to the eye and light, cool fabric. Once worn Cora would disappear, invisible and safe. His fingers twitch and he thinks of sewing a shield – Kevlar, Peacekeeper demi armor, or flexible steel. He wants to cover her up in cloth to protect her from harm, a soft rainbow blanket which calls her home.

“Happy hunger games!” Caesar Flickerman cries.

Cinna’s father stops pacing and they all perk up as the girl from district one takes the stage.

“I hope she’s all right,” Clasta says suddenly griping Cinna’s hand.

“They’re not in the arena,” Cherra hisses.

“Not yet,” Clasta whispers.

Cinna says nothing and squeezes both his sister’s hands.

The condemned breeze by in all manner of moods. Rose from district two bounces in her seat with eagerness; Brandon from district six struggles to control the quake of his voice. Though fear over powers most of his emotions, Cinna admires some of the clothing through the rounds of questions; a tight silver dress covered in flickering gems on Elise from district five (he wonders if they’re electrified or if that’s just the type of stone) distracts him for a moment.

Then, “Cora Bell of district eight,” Caesar announces with glee.

She steps on stage and the rest of the family gasps in surprise all around Cinna. Hair on top of her head laced with golden flowers and golden sandals twisting up her calves, Cora wears the red dress Cinna made her.

“Welcome, Cora.”

“Hello, Caesar, having a good time?”

He laughs, “aren’t I the one asking those questions?”

“Well, you’re working so hard and you have to be up here the whole time,” she smiles, big and pleasant and sympathetic, “I just hope it’s not too tiring for you!”

The crowd at the Capitol ‘aws’ and laughs at once, charmed.

“Well, thank you for asking. I’m wonderful.”

She smiles and nods, apparently delighted.

“Now, Cora,” Caesar continues, “this is a very familiar dress you have on.”

Cora nods and Cinna see a slight change of her smile from the plastered fakery to something real. “Yes.”

“This was the dress you wore to the reaping.” He waves his hand up and down over her form. “And such a beautiful dress, you’d have thought it was from here in the Capitol!”

“It’s not,” Cora explains, “in fact my brother, Cinna, made it for me for my birthday.”

The crowd makes ‘oos’ and ‘ahs’ of surprise. 

Caesar gasps along with them. “That is a surprise! I bet your stylist wasn’t too pleased about that.”

The camera flashes to a thin woman with purple skin who is Cora’s stylist. She only shakes her head at the screen and makes a put upon expression.

Cora does not laugh or simper or apologize. She looks at the camera back on her and says, “I told her I wouldn’t wear anything else to my interview; that nothing she could make me would be as beautiful or perfect for me then what my brother had already made.”

The crowd titters with laughter, half amused by her presumption and half impressed by her boldness, but still completely charmed by this young, confident tribute. Caesar continues, asking her about her training score and her impressions of the Capitol. The rest passes in a blur because Cinna realizes he has a least done one thing to help his sister. Though he couldn’t sew her a cloak of invisibility or a shield of steel, he has given her a gown of scarlet to face the blood thirsty crowds of the capitol with pride and confidence. Though she sits miles and miles away out of his reach and away from those who would keep her safe, she at least wears Cinna’s arms around her in fabric, protection for her heart.

The night before the tributes will be released into the arena, Cinna sleeps downstairs with Cherra and Clasta. He can hardly bear the sight of Cora’s empty bed and being alone is just too much. The three of them lie in the dark, Cinna curled up with Clasta though he’s far too old and the bed is too small. None of that matters right now. Though the room remains silent for a long time Cinna knows none of them sleep.

“Do you think…” Cinna knows he should not put voice to his whirling thoughts, to his crazy ideas of escape or rescue or the impossible – that she could win.

“Shh,” Clasta rubs her hand over his face so his eyes close, “try to think of all the good times like her face on her birthday when you gave her that dress. Don’t think about tomorrow.”

Cinna nods against the pillow, remembering Cora’s check marks in his sketchbook upstairs. He wishes he’d found a way to make every single outfit for her.

“We’re never going to see her again,” Cherra whispers.

“Cherra!” Clasta snaps.

“Well… one more time.”

Clasta makes a pained noise and none of them speak again until morning.

The next day they join the crowds on empty stomachs in the pavilion. Their family and the Lawson’s earn special seats up front to watch the horror unfold. President Snow makes his usual speech and then the tributes rise up into the yellow fields of the new arena circled around the cornucopia. 

Everything feels suddenly sharp and real. 

Cinna scans the scene for anything that could help Cora, as if he could speak directly into her brain from afar if he notices anything. On the ground lie a number of back packs no doubt holding food and other survival supplies. However, by way of weapons only one type litter the ground – short and thick, ones as long as his sister is tall, some bronze, some obviously steel, one that even looks like gold, some on chains and others with points on both ends – all of them maces, only cruel, barbaric maces.

“Oh my god,” Cinna’s father whispers.

Then the gamekeeper’s voice booms out the count down, “10, 9, 8 –”

Cinna’s eyes dart across the screen looking for Cora among the frozen children.

“6, 5, 4 –”

He sees her to the left of the cornucopia’s opening, the male tribute from district twelve to her left and the female tribute from district six to her right. She is not smiling anymore.

“2, 1!”

The screen fractures into four pieces the moment the tributes move to better cover the field and not miss a moment of action. Clasta grabs his hand like a vice as Cora vaults off her circle and toward the nearest backpack. The boy from ten, Rupert is his name, gets to a mace first and swings for her head. Cora ducks just in time, rolling across the grass away from him.

“Oh, yes,” Cherra squeaks and clenches her fists together against her mouth.

Rupert lunges for her again, swinging the mace toward her mid section on the ground but a flash of metal catches him in the side of the head, blood splashing over Cora’s face, and he falls. They see Samuel Lawson standing over her with an expression half triumph and half surprise. She grins at him and jumps up, the strap of a backpack now in her hand.

“Thank –”

Before she can finish two words Samuel is tackled to the ground by another boy – Cinna can’t tell who. He wrenches Samuel’s arm holding the mace around to violently smash it into Samuel’s face again and again. 

“No!” Samuel’s mother screams just as his father makes an almost inhuman moan of despair.

Cora jumps away and starts to run when a mace catches her in the ankle. Cora falls onto her face, backpack rolling away and tries to drag herself as quickly as possible out of harm’s way. The holder of the mace is Crystal from district one and she laughs as Cora crawls.

“Nice try, little one!”

Cora rolls and starts to sit up, hands ready to defend herself then Crystal swings the mace in a large arc. The mace slips right past Cora’s hands and slams into the side of her head. Bone crunches and blood pours out of Cora’s nose and ears. She groans and collapses backward, body trembling with shock. Her eyes roll back, still half alive, gasping then Crystal smashes the mace down into Cora’s chest, ribs crushing, and Cora’s body stops moving.

 

The 66th Hunger Games last for two weeks and four days, relatively short by game standards. Thirteen die the first day at the Cornucopia. The fields turn out to be riddled with poisonous snakes forcing most to hide in the tree groves in closer proximity, possibly why so many die so quickly.

(Crystal Reveer of district one makes it to the final five but no further. Champ of district two finally breaks the Career alliance and jumps from a tree to smash his mace into her back; twice more into her eyes for maximum blood shed. Cinna makes no attempt to squash the feeling of satisfaction from her death.)

The deaths are all bloody and gruesome, tributes left gasping with half crushed skulls or mangled holes in their chests, slowly bleeding to death unable to move or ease their pain. For the happy Capitol citizens, one surprise comes from the fourteen year old female tribute of district eleven, Zara, who lasts until the final four by staying out in the fields. She avoided the snakes due to her knowledge of snake poison from her swampy home deep in the south of Panem. 

The final battle comes between the two tributes from district four, Sasha Hadwick and Maxwell Holmes. The ensuing carnage does not disappoint when the two smash head long into each other, breaking fingers and forearms, Sasha’s ankle and Maxwell’s shoulder, blood covering both their clothes. Until Sasha wraps her chain mace around Maxwell’s knees bringing him to the ground. She ends up stomping on his chest three times with her own boots so he gasps and screams until she ends it all with a final swing of her mace into his nose so hard she punctures through his skull.

Before the victor interview, the Capitol crowds still cheering, Clasta says, “maybe its better she died quickly.”

The next day the Capitol people come for him.

8:00 AM sharp fists pound against their front door. Their mother makes it to the door first from the kitchen, Clasta and his father right behind. Cherra had already left at six for the early factory shift. They open the door just as Cinna reaches the bottom step of the stairs. Two Peacekeepers flank a man with glossy, unnatural red hair in the doorway.

“Bell?” He says, the Capitol’s high tilt to his voice as if the hair didn’t already give him away.

Cinna sees his mother’s hand grip harder on the door frame. “Yes? Is this…” she swallows so that even Cinna can hear. “Is this about Cora?”

“No, ma’am,” one of the Peacekeepers answers.

“This is about your son,” the red haired man picks up, “Cinna Bell.”

All three turn and look at Cinna. Cinna folds his hands behind his back and walks from the kitchen toward the door. The man and the Peacekeepers step inside, half pushing his mother into the wall as they do so. Cinna sees his father wants to protest, ready to throw them out if it wouldn’t get him shot.

“If you please,” the man says to Cinna’s family.

They stare at him in confusion then one of the Peacekeepers raises a hand and points to the other room. Clasta opens her mouth but their father grips her arm and the three of them exit the room. Cinna feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up but he says nothing. 

“Dear Cinna.” The man steps forward and holds out his hand. “I am Septimus Moran.”

Cinna shakes his hand but still says nothing. He notices the odd points on Septimus’ jacket at the shoulders and elbows then on his pants at the hips. It makes him appear almost like a porcupine what with his mustache, thick in the middle and twisting into points at the ends. He smiles wide to show a mouth full of bright white teeth, each one oddly inscribed with an SM.

“I am here, Cinna,” he goes on after Cinna does not reply, “because I wish to nurture your talent.”

Cinna tilts his head. “My talent?”

“The dress you made for that sweet sister of yours, Cora.”

Cinna hears a dish hit the floor in the kitchen. His eyes tick to the left behind him then back to Septimus. Septimus taps the tips of his fingers together twice and smiles.

“I want to bring you to the Capitol, my boy, where you can put your designs to good use!”

“No!” Clasta suddenly runs out of the kitchen. “You can’t be serious!”

One of the Peacekeepers slides in between her and where Cinna stands. His mother and father come out behind Clasta, hands on her shoulders.

“You want to take our son?” His mother snaps. “To the Capitol? He’s not a tribute!”

“Mrs. Bell…” one Peacekeeper begins.

“What are you going to do with him?” His father asks. “No one from the districts lives in the Capitol! Why do you want him?”

“Sir!”

Septimus pulls an envelope from his jacket. “Special dispensation from the President’s council to nurture this boy’s special gift.”

“What?” Cinna’s mother gasps.

“That is such crap!” Clasta yells, harsh and angry as Cinna has never seen her before.

One Peacekeeper grabs her arm. “Calm yourself!”

“You can’t take my brother!” Clasta snaps again, yanking her arm away.

Septimus’ smile does not falter as he turns only at the waist to flash it toward them. “It’s only for a little while!”

The three of them start shouting again, voices over lapping as the Peacekeepers try to calm them down with soft words morphing into threats. It all becomes background to Cinna because Septimus turns to stare at him again. They look eye to eye, cold dread down Cinna’s spine, because he knows by the look on this man’s face that Cinna is not coming home again.


	2. The Capitol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Somewhere along the way Cinna let’s go of the small coil of anger inside him. He understands Septimus’ motives even if he doesn’t agree with them. He knows his talent is definitely put to use here and encouraged. Staying angry and letting resentment rise up when a gold brooch reminds him of his lost sister gains nothing and only causes him pain. He doesn’t need to forgive but he can move on._
> 
> Cinna in the Capitol.

Septimus bustles Cinna out of the district faster than he can say goodbye to his family. Five Peacekeepers pack what little items belong only to him as his parents cling on.

“This is ridiculous!” Clasta shouts at every one of them as they swoop around the house. “He’s not yours! This isn’t right. You can’t!”

Septimus stands with his back against the door waiting, before beckoning Cinna with one finger.

“At least let us get Cherra to say goodbye!”

On the train, Septimus sits between Cinna and the isle of the sumptuous passenger car. Large carts with an array of foods and multicolored drinks trundle by. Capitol citizens giggle and chime their empty wine glasses for refills. Cinna feels only numb – unable to cry or even laugh from the absurdity of it all; Cora dead for only three weeks and Cinna rides off to who knows what fate.

“Cinna.”

Cinna turns his head to Septimus beside him. Septimus holds out Cinna’s sketchbook. Cinna stares for a moment then takes the book.

“There is no reason to fear, Cinna.”

Cinna raises his eyebrows but resists a derisive snort.

“I am bringing you to the Capitol because it is where you belong. A talent like yours shouldn’t be squandered out in the districts.”

“It’s my home,” Cinna replies calmly, finally speaking up in his own defense.

Septimus tugs on the end of his mustache once then puts his hands palm together. “You can make a new home.”

The train zips across the countryside and then into the scenic route of the Capitol. Mountains tower in the background white as clouds and the city itself glistens more magical than the cameras ever portrayed. The buildings pile on top of one another, each one trying to out shine the last with more height, more glamour. Cinna hardly marvels at one before another vies for attention. He wonders what Cora thought as she passed by such grandeur. Once they reach the station and Cinna’s brain feels fit to burst, they exit with a small stream of passengers. With one bag in hand of Cinna’s things, Septimus leads Cinna through the city. 

Cinna gapes at the people, their absurd and glorious clothing. He sees a woman with large green ruffled sleeves on her coat and a skirt that sweeps diagonally across her body from hip to ankle so her right leg stays completely exposed. One man wears a jacket layered with red and orange to match his long orange hair and sharp red nails. Another woman wears a skirt like an umbrella stopping at her hips; thin strings of diamonds at the points hang down all the way to her feet. Ideas start to explode in Cinna’s head. He almost stops to write everything down in his sketchbook. Septimus seems to anticipate this, however, and circles a hand around Cinna’s wrist, keeping him steadily moving down the narrow streets.

After about ten minutes of walking, Septimus stops. “Here we are.”

Cinna stands in front of a purple shop. The sign merely says ‘Boutique.’ Cinna raises an eyebrow at Septimus. He grins yet again, unlocking the door and swinging it open.

Inside the shop appears larger than Cinna would have expected from the outside. A high counter with an ornate brass cashbox, obviously trying to look vintage, lines the far right wall, a high stool behind it. The ceiling reaches up four times Cinna’s height, open at the front then about a third of the way in there is a second floor. The floor above remains open with only swank gold railings for walls to allow viewing of the floor below. A spiral staircase just at the end of the checkout counter connects the two levels. The floors are white and the walls are light lavender with darker purple embellishments. Dummies fill the first floor modeling a wide expanse of outfits as well as a few plush, indigo, circular couches. To the far left a silver coffee and tea service sit under double windows, complete with some high tech machine Cinna fails to recognize. The second floor, from what Cinna sees, appears to be where clients try on clothes and gape at themselves in mirrors.

“Welcome to your new home, Cinna.” Septimus waves an arm then pushes Cinna forward. “What you’ll really like is in the back.”

Around an out cropping of wall, Cinna finds a small dais surrounded by mirrors and hooks on the wall, obviously for observing and measuring a person before tailoring. Then there is a door with a red knob. Through it Cinna finds the actual work room. Dress forms – five at least – sewing machines, needles, measuring tape, a huge cutting board, sergers, capitol heat binders, quick form plates, jars and jars of buttons, gems, stones, feathers, and every fabric Cinna remembers from district eight – simple cotton all the way to triple hue memory fabric – crowd into the room fit to burst. Cinna stops breathing.

“And this, which I can see from your slack jawed appreciation fits the bill, is where you will work your magic.”

“You…” Cinna swallows, “you have… and there’s…”

“I am sure what ever you wish to complete that sentence with is just wonderful, Cinna, but perhaps we should settle you in properly first before I have you slave away!”

Above the boutique lie Septimus’ rooms. (Cinna thinks of them as ‘rooms’ because the word ‘apartment’ feels inadequate). In fact, Septimus lives in three floors worth of apartments all owned by him and converted into a three story dwelling with stairs inside between each floor to make it ‘whole.’ Floor one hosts an enormous living room full of long couches, chairs, a huge TV in the wall, framed pictures and loop video casts all boasting Septimus’ triumphs, not to mention a full bar. Cream carpet covers the floor leading up to acid green walls. The far right of the floor has a kitchen with black marble counter tops and a Jacuzzi takes up the far left. The second floor includes a design room with scraps everywhere, another lounge with a half bar at the wall and another door leading to what will be Cinna’s ‘rooms.’ This consists of a bedroom, bath, office – with TV, a wall of books and computer terminal – and a closet as big as his shared room at home.

“I do hope you like it, bit sparse at the moment but we can fix that.”

Cinna has no words which can accurately convey the ‘holy shit’ feeling threatening to knock him over.

“And my personal area is the third floor.”

Cinna shakes his head, “Isn’t this all personal? It’s your home.”

Septimus laughs. “Oh Cinna, you are quite the district boy, aren’t you?”

Cinna has no idea what he means by that.

Life in the Capitol flows by quickly and slowly at once, a mixture of excitement and complete sorrow. Cinna cannot quell his interest and desire to create, design, to work but he also remembers a family far away out of reach and Cora gone forever.

Septimus starts right away throwing Cinna into the deep pool that is the Capitol fashion world hoping (or maybe knowing) Cinna will swim.

“You can never have too much color,” Septimus explains.

“But so much clashes –”

“No one in the Capitol knows what the word ‘clash’ means.”

“That is ridiculous!

“Exactly.”

Cinna starts by taking his old designs from district eight and bringing them to life. Septimus wants to have a new line which he calls ‘The Eights’ designed exclusively by Cinna. (Of course, by ‘exclusively’ he means after a thorough analysis, criticism, remake, and approval).

“The Eights?”

“I think it’s quite clever!” Septimus grins with pride. “Too bad no one can get the joke but us.”

Cinna has yet to get to the point to tell Septimus he’s full of shit but he’s pretty sure he’ll get there soon.

Septimus turns out to not be the frightening, painted Capitol goon Cinna first saw when Septimus stood in his parent’s hall. Septimus actually has a sort of insane charm, still that lilting tone, but full of humor and casual sarcasm. He certainly has more sense than many Capitol citizens Cinna viewed on the Hunger Games screens and now in the city itself. While he may be pampered, used to his own way, and completely unknowledgeable about the idea of financial hardship, Septimus understands the difference between the districts and the Capitol. He knows how good they have it here and how bad it is outside. He just has no desire to change that, quite content to be where everything is best.

“The point of you, Cinna, is to add flair to the scene.”

Cinna holds a pair of scissors in one hand and three needles in the other as Septimus paces in front of him, full speech mode. “Flair?”

“The Capitol has a way of always going over the top with fashion, too many bows or holes or glitter.”

“I’ve noticed,” Cinna mutters.

“There is a way to make clothes beautiful and entrancing without that.”

“If you know all this then why did you need me?” Cinna still hopes that Septimus’ remark to his family of ‘only a little while’ will be true. 

“Cinna, Cinna, Cinna,” Septimus chides as if Cinna should really, really know all this already; “You are the one who is going to bring that balance. I have been in this fashion scene for a very long time and I must admit I have a certain way of doing things. Your eye is clearly a natural one and a bit of Capitol training and access to the right kinds of tools can bring out the best in you!”

“Which will help you,” Cinna inserts.

Septimus takes one needle from Cinna’s hand. “Cinna, no one does anything without an eye on how it can help them.”

So, Cinna submerges and inhales the water. He learns to use the tools never available to him before, works with fabrics either too expensive or out of his realm of ideas – changeable fabric, electric embroidery, gem working, laser measuring, real feathers, mink fur, liquid adhesive. All the outfits he’d only doodled to get them out of his head before suddenly take shape there on a dress form for any person who enters the shop to see.

When he looks at the peacock dress completely made, Septimus cooing over the subtle use of color to make the appearance of feathers instead of using the real things, Cinna suddenly wants to tear it to pieces because he hears Cora saying, “I see blue jay.”

Cinna remakes the red hat which lit up Cherra’s hair, turning her face into a painting. The fabric is finer and Cinna even adds a trail of indigo thread against the gold which weaves a curling path all around the brim. The path leads back to district eight.

Septimus asks about silver, a consistent color in Cinna’s old drawings, and Cinna breaks a glass jar of buttons when his hands start shaking – his mother in the kitchen picking up the wrapping paper after he opened his present of expensive fabric and his father laughing at such fine cuffs to his new gloves.

“Cinna, must I remind you that things break here?” Septimus clicks a sewing machine to life, self feed leaving Septimus free to watch. “But no worry, there are plenty more to be had!”

Every time Cinna sits down to make a calculation, how many yards or how many inches across or what speed calibration on the machine, Clasta swims before his eyes with a ruler in one hand and a needle in the other – shoving a clean set of geometry notes into his bag because she knows he missed half of the work.

Septimus sits down beside Cinna at his drawing board one day, “I thought perhaps.” He pauses, eyes coasting over Cinna’s face. “Perhaps, we could make a copy of your famous dress?”

Cinna stares for a moment because what does Septimus mean by ‘famous’ and then he stands up abruptly, knocking over his stool.

“No.”

Septimus puts up his hands. “Shh, dear Cinna, no need to leap into flight, it was only an idea.”

Cinna frowns. “It was a bad one.”

Cinna turns and walks away from Septimus; he has to put space between himself and the memories.

“It will fade, Cinna.”

Cinna whips around at Septimus’ words. “Oh, cut it, Septimus! What do you know?”

Septimus threads his fingers together. “We’ve all had loved ones die, Cinna, surely you’d think of that.” 

Cinna deflates as quickly as his anger flared despite his desire to stay righteous. He looks away. “I can’t just forget.”

“Why would you? It’s not about forgetting, Cinna, it’s about moving on and letting yourself be all right with being alive.”

Sometimes Cinna forgets that underneath the ever changing hair color and the monogram teeth, Septimus is a person too who has lived more than just Capitol finery. In fact, Septimus often speaks with warmth that makes Cinna believe he could call the Capitol home if he tried.

However, Septimus is not the only member of the over indulged throngs of the Capitol whom with Cinna interacts on a regular basis. Two women work in Septimus’ shop taking care of money behind the counter, showing off clothing on display, inquiring into specific outfits customers may want made as well as the occasional tea and coffee preparation. They also spend a lot of time chattering.

“I am thinking of going blue in the spring!” Misty says as she slides across the floor in her new fur slippers. “Or maybe green but I don’t want to look sickly, remember Penelope?”

“Just don’t keep your blond hair then,” Lilac advises.

Cinna interrupts. “Wait, by blue you don’t mean your hair?”

“Oh no, I’m not a blue hair sort of girl!” Misty corrects, sliding into the wall and clicking a button on the espresso machine – Septimus explained the whole thing to Cinna for a good five minutes.

“So, you mean,” Cinna taps the face of one of their mannequins, “your skin then?”

“Obviously!” Misty and Lilac chorus, once again acting like twins.

“Hmm.” Cinna tilts his head and holds back his groan. 

“I’d go with pink myself,” Lilac says, pursuing her lips and twirling the end of her snow white hair between her fingers.

“I’ve got it!” Misty shouts, nearly knocking over a stack of glass mugs. “I’ll do half and half! Blue and pink!”

“Uh,” Cinna and Lilac say together, “no.”

They look at each other in surprise.

“Blue and green?” Misty tries.

Cinna thinks of them as ‘the birds’ since they never stop tittering and flitting around the shop to push this button or try on this outfit, endless streams of meaningless conversation.

“My friend, Liza, has just had a beautiful job done, implanted pieces of glass in her cheeks!” Lilac makes a dreamy sort of noise. “It’s angelic.”

“Did you hear about the council member?” Misty wiggles her eyebrows, always a fan of political intrigue.

Lilac squeaks. “Caught in bed with another man again?”

“Not quite, his wife joined in this time and they were found in the council chambers, all three of them!”

They both scream with delight.

“Keep the volume to under glass breaking pitch, please, my dears!” Septimus chides and Cinna considers ear plugs. 

Since his arrival, Cinna has turned into one of their favorite topics. When ever he isn’t sewing in the back or measuring a client, they try to drag every little scrap of information out of him, except they ask unusual questions for new acquaintances.

“So, what was the first color you dyed your hair?” Misty asks.

“I… I never have.”

They fall into hysterics, not believing a word he says.

“Brown eyes or blue?”

Cinna points to his. “Green actually.”

Lilac scoffs and throws a hat in the corner. “Oh well, right now they are but what about next week?”

“What is Septimus like when you two are alone?” Misty asks with a raise of her eyebrows.

Cinna pauses in mid swoop of his needle and turns from the design board. “Why?”

Misty rocks back and forth on her heels. “Oh, well, just wondering but none of my business I suppose.” She giggles and Cinna considers locking the door to the back room more often.

“Where would you get your tattoos?” Lila whips off her shirt, flashing a bit more than necessary. “I just have these wings on my back right now.”

Cinna frowns and looks around but not at her. “You mean I have to get some?”

Lilac rolls her eyes. “Well, why wouldn’t you want to?”

“Have you ever thought of getting real wings, Lilac?” Misty asks.

“All the time.” Lilac points to the upper level where Septimus talks with two tall, fuchsia skinned women. “If only someone would pay us a bit more!”

Cinna rips a hole in the shirt he holds and runs into the back room before he either faints in shock or throws up.

“Oh!” Lilac claps her hands. “Which was your favorite Hunger Games?”

Cinna never answers that question.

The two of them take him around the city. 

Septimus creates a ‘cover story’ for Cinna’s background about family living up in the higher mountain areas of the Capitol. Not many people live up there due to the cold and the amount of time it takes for all the lavish creature comforts to reach such heights. However, some retired civil servants of Capitol fame own mansions in the peaks and Septimus claims Cinna hails from an eccentric family now since passed on. Thus, Cinna supposedly arrived in the Capitol proper to further enjoy life and spread his beautiful creations around.

“Why didn’t you just say I was President Snow’s bastard son from a woman vanished under mysterious circumstances?”

Septimus smiles and paints green dye into his mustache. “Why? Are you not fond of mountain living?”

“I guess that’s why I moved.”

They show him the president’s mansion, the statues of the ‘heroes’ of the old rebellion, the historic decree of ‘The Hunger Games’ posted at city hall. (Cinna wonders how flammable the old paper is). Mostly they show him the restaurant district and the fashion section, just one street over from their own shop much to Septimus’ displeasure.

“If only we were on the strip.” Septimus sighs as he stares out the window.

“Wouldn’t have needed me then?”

“My boy, I would dead by now without you, absolutely dead.”

To Cinna, every store they show to him is more ridiculous than the last: a skin dying salon specializing in metallic; a wig shop with organization by height of hair; a make up store with color meant for specific parts of the body such as the ‘intimate’ areas; a jewelry shop for just face piercing. There seems to be no shortage of ways to hack up or dye or distort one’s person.

“You should let us change your hair,” Lilac says, running her fingers through his short brown hair, “I think red would be lovely.”

“Yellow would be even better!” Misty flips open her organizer, tapping the flat screen with her stylus. “I know three very good places. Just how much of an allowance does Septimus give you?”

“My hair is fine, Lilac.” Cinna smiles at them because sometimes humoring them kills time. “But maybe I’ll let you add some of those new imitation rubies we got in yesterday.”

The positively scream with excitement.

Since arriving in the Capitol, Cinna’s new designs lean toward a more somber tone. A lot of works come out in black or subdued shades of blue, olive green, maroon. The clothing tends to be simpler: double breasted suit jackets or long ruffled skirts. Maybe his muse wants to compensate for the over the top Capitol fashions despite his past ideas.

“Cinna, we need to cheer you up.”

Cinna tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

Septimus points to the gray suit, thin black stripes over the cuffs and two rows of black buttons over the front, no lapels. Cinna stares and sighs, turning back to Septimus.

“I’ve set you up on a date with the daughter of a friend of mine.”

“Oh god.”

“Don’t worry, I hear she is the sensible sort.”

“No.”

Septimus crosses his arms. “Cinna…”

“Didn’t you bring me here for my design skills and not to make an eligible match?”

“Your design skills are only suffering so far, so that is hardly helping me.” Cinna opens his mouth to protest but Septimus puts his palm over it. “No, no, shush. Humor me; try to have a good time. I even watered it down for you, just dinner.”

Cinna raises his eyebrow because if dinner is a ‘watered down’ date then what could the usual possibly be?

Everything starts well. Her name is Sypsy, she calls him charming though he fumbles like any first timer. (District eight never gave him time for this sort of thing regardless of interest).

“Oh, I do love to read! It is a favorite pass time of mine.”

She smiles – pink spiky hair and copper tattoos of moons on her hands – and the conversation remains sane.

“Fashion isn’t my only interest, either!”

Three dates – dinner, capitol waterfall tour, dinner again – and one night together with quiet words and a first time Cinna would not actually admit to but certainly a good one, until Sypsy suggests a fourth date.

“I know we’ve only been together for a little while but I thought a wonderful day trip would be to visit one of the Hunger Games arenas!”

Cinna nearly trips and falls face first onto the sidewalk. “What?”

Sypsy smiles and shrugs. “I know most people go for the weekend but you can do it in a day if you follow one of the guided tours and the 58th games arena isn’t far at all!”

Cinna breaks off the relationship – just three weeks long – and refuses to explain why.

Ironically enough Cinna’s captor becomes his salvation. Septimus may be the one who brought him and keeps him here (without a real cage) but only Septimus really seems to be sane. When he thinks the girls have calmed, talking of something normal like chicken for lunch, they turn around and send him spinning again.

“Oh no, I had chicken last night! Three rounds to the bathroom it was so good!”

Their clients certainly behave no better, especially since they are the ones with money. When Cinna sees them naked half of them have strange items imbedded in their skin or even more exotic augmentations. 

“I need something to match green skin and red hair; I’m having it done for a party next week.”

Septimus steers Cinna by the shoulder as the woman shifts from foot to foot on their tailoring stand. Cinna raises his eyebrows and makes a face. Septimus purses his lips and writes ‘Winter?’ on Cinna’s note pad.

Cinna laughs and suddenly a light bulb clicks. He turns back to their customer. “How do you feel about white?” She frowns. “Maybe something with holly, an out of season surprise? Would certainly be noticed.”

She gasps, “Oh lovely,” and jumps at him, enveloping him in a naked hug. 

Cinna flings his hands up and looks frantically at Septimus.

“Ah, the joy of appreciation.” Septimus smiles and slides away as Cinna flails.

“Could you make something that shows every one of my tattoos?” From the man with ten tattoos all over his body.

At least the Capitol people make him think in even more creative ways then he imagined possible when he first arrived. 

“Should I just make a suit and cut holes in it?” Cinna asks Septimus, measurements and color swatches in his hand.

Septimus peers over his shoulder and taps the clipboard. “Embrace the insanity, Cinna.”

“You’re not the one designing this ensemble!”

“I’m supervising.” Septimus picks up a small roll of sheer pearl fabric and tosses it at Cinna. “And giving suggestions.”

Cinna’s mouth spreads into a grin. “Genius!”

The only thing Cinna really hates Septimus for are his Hunger Games parties. Everyone with some sort of wealth throws at least one party during the Hunger Games. The first day of the arena loud music combined with screams of ecstasy and excitement ring far into the night throughout the city. Some people never go to sleep at all with so many rounds of eating and betting and cheering at the beginning of the blood shed.

Cinna hides in his room, door locked and chair firmly secured at the doorknob. He hears all the clapping and conversation regardless, no way to keep out the noise. He tries to work – plan a new shirt, pants, and long coat all made of thick, protective leather.

“That one is so fast, twenty down!”

“Never, district six? She won’t last the week!”

“The week?” A high, scratching laugh. “The day is more like.”

“Oh no, Bale is the one I’m in for. District one is always a good bet.”

Septimus’ laugh carries every time, distinct among the throngs swarming over the apartments, “I’m out of the betting so far; you can’t trust the training scores these days, I tell you.”

Cinna feels physically sick – visions of Cora running, falling, shaking on the ground with blood all over her face. He keeps reliving those few days, the interviews, the parade, the reapings. He thinks maybe he should have volunteered for Samuel, taken his place to protect Cora inside the arena.

He doesn’t cry, he won’t cry, he won’t let his emotions over run in this place where no one understands how this barbarism destroys lives, more lives than just the tributes.

“Where is that boy of yours, Septimus? We come expecting to see something new and it’s your same green walls.”

“Oh you must repaint sometime, Septimus; you’ve had this same color for a whole year!”

“Surely you want to show something grand and fresh for your new treasure? Has he made you an outfit yet, Kiba? I adore my new coat, simple elegance!”

A light knock on his door. “Cinna?”

Cinna breathes through his nose and keeps cutting the polyester on his table. He hears the door knob rattle.

“Cinna, you needn’t lock the door.”

Cinna frowns and, yes, he feels a bit like an irrational twelve year old sulking, finger in his ears and holding his breath but he thinks the _reason_ is entirely adult and rational.

“Just come to the party for a small time. I know you can charm people if you want to.”

Cinna huffs then stands and, shoving the chair back, opens the door. Septimus waits with his arms behind his back, blue suit with red tails and his hair newly dyed white. 

He smiles. “Coming?”

“Just go enjoy your party, Septimus, you know I’m not. Tell them all I say hello but I’m very busy.”

“They don’t really understand the word ‘busy,’ Cinna.”

Cinna raises an eyebrow. Suddenly, they hear a scream with a slightly digital tone and a cheer erupts from the guests.

A man shouts, “I told you!”

Another woman fusses. “I was going to bet on her too!”

Septimus sighs as Cinna’s face suddenly flat lines. “It is only a party, Cinna.”

“No, it is not.” Cinna slams the door.

Most of the time Septimus is the only one Cinna relaxes or feels some semblance of normalcy around within this surreal existence.

Upstairs in the rooms, Cinna lies face down on Septimus’ couch – the navy blue one against the wall next to the bar. Every day the parade continues and sometimes Cinna wants to bang his head against the wall from the pretentiousness, the privilege, their whole corrupt way of life. Then other days just a look at some copper tinted curl or elongated eyelash gives him a new idea – something like a gown but in fact pants which connect up into a shirt, straps around the neck; wavy, white fabric layered with sheer fabric and black bands of gloss around the top. A swan. 

Cinna feels pulled back and forth, the inspiration of the Capitol and the ache of home so far away now.

“Cinna.”

Cinna makes an unintelligible noise into the cushion.

“Cinna, food.”

“I’m not a dog,” Cinna says as he turns his head.

Septimus slips a plate of pasta onto the circular table in front of Cinna. Septimus pops a grape in his mouth and points to the plate again.

“Thanks, dad,” Cinna replies sarcastically.

“The appreciation I get for my hard work!”

“Ordering in isn’t hard work.”

Septimus raises his eyebrows and wags a finger. “I’ll send you out next time with an attitude like that.”

“This better not be from Palos, you know they over charge.”

Septimus suddenly begins to laugh. Cinna sits up and stares until Septimus waves a hand.

“Ah, see? It’s happening.”

“What is?”

“You’re settling in, beginning to really live here.”

Cinna’s face falls and Septimus stops laughing. He shakes his head and sits down in the chair across the small table.

“It’s not a bad thing, Cinna. Better than to be miserable, yes?”

Cinna breathes in slowly and lets it out. It shouldn’t panic him; it shouldn’t make him feel like a traitor. The Capitol is another way of life and he is here now. Nothing and no one benefits by torturing himself; it would not help his family or anyone else home in district eight. Though life here is opulent and often ridiculous, maybe if Cinna acclimates he can have an effect, improve things somehow.

After a moment, Cinna nods at Septimus and picks up his plate. “Yes, better.”

“There was a whole essay of district versus Capitol loyalty going through your head there.” Septimus points with his fork as he eats from the take out box. “Perhaps sometimes, Cinna, you think too much.”

Cinna cocks his head. “And you not enough.”

“Evenly paired then.”

 

The morning of Cinna’s eighteenth birthday, Septimus bangs on the door to his room.

“Wake up, wake up, Cinna Bell, you have a big day of excess ahead of you.”

Cinna fumbles and nearly falls out of his bed. Cinna half blindly stumbles to the door and yanks it open.

“What?”

Septimus, already dressed in a bright red pin stripe suit and sporting new black hair, smiles back at him. “Today is your birthday.”

“And?”

“And there will be no work today for either of us, at least not the money making kind of work.”

Cinna frowns. “Meaning what, exactly?”

Septimus grins slowly. “A party.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes!”

The day begins with a catered breakfast, five Avoxes waiting on them from the moment Cinna leaves his room not even dressed for the day yet. Every breakfast food imaginable ends up on his plate and already he worries for his stomach.

“Wear some color for once, Cinna.” Septimus shoves Cinna back toward his room after two hours of pancakes, sausages, crepes, and three mugs of coffee. “Not that your usual black isn’t splendid but why not be cheerful in your dress for your own birthday?”

“You’re not the fashion Peacekeeper,” Cinna says, hand on his door.

Septimus raises his eyebrows and Cinna raises his right back with a smirk. 

Septimus’ eyes widen. “Ah humor, he _is_ ready for the day.”

Cinna caves to Septimus’ suggestion and decides on a red shirt to accompany his black suit, vest, and, just to add some fancy, a tie. Septimus isn’t the only one who can dress the part. 

“So?” Cinna points to his shirt as he walks down the stairs to the first floor.

Septimus claps his hands together once. “My pride is sky high.”

“Right up there with the sarcasm.”

“Ha!” Septimus grabs a teal coat off a hook by the door to clash splendidly with his suit. “You prefer my sarcasm to the bouts of serious conversation.” Septimus tosses Cinna his blue coat which Cinna catches. “Time to spoil you.”

Septimus convened the party at a large hall with a ceiling high above their heads painted like the night sky. When they arrive sometime after two in the afternoon, as Septimus took ‘spoil you’ to mean ‘shopping,’ the hall already swells with people. Cinna recognizes some of them as patrons of the shop, others from advertisements around the city. Every one of them seems to be part of the fashion world, either by design or by money.

“Happy birthday!” they shout as Cinna and Septimus walk through the door and applaud as though Cinna just performed a symphony by himself.

Cinna smiles and waves a hand. He has a strange desire to punch Septimus.

“I should warn you,” Septimus whispers as the mass of people start toward them, “every person is going to want to talk to you.”

“What?” Cinna gasps. “Why?”

“It’s your party.”

“But they don’t know me; most of them don’t at least!”

Septimus laughs. “Do you think that matters?”

People flow toward them, all starting with ‘happy birthday, so Septimus tells me…’ or ‘happy birthday, well, aren’t you gorgeous….’ Or ‘happy birthday, you’re the new one…’ Cinna peers over their heads as they babble on to try and manage his surroundings. The room hosts six long tables against each wall laden with food, two just for drinks of varying colors, most likely the type to send one’s head spinning. A fire burns in an immense, ornate fire place against the far wall. In the center a large white marble area contains couples dancing to the music of the boisterous band clustered in the right corner.

“Come on,” Septimus grabs Cinna’s arm and drags him through the people. “Let’s fill you up.”

They weave through the crowd so Cinna can coast by the food tables and grab things as he passes, barely seeing what makes it on to his plate.

“And most important.” Septimus presses a glass of some kind of purple liquid into his hand. “Put you in the mood.”

“Drunk?”

“Exactly.”

“Cinna!” Misty suddenly bounds into his arms, sloshing his drink onto the floor and nearly knocking his plate down as well. “Happy, happy, happy birthday, you darling! Oh my goodness, we have to take you out later or tomorrow to get you an 18 tattoo. I mean it. You can’t hold out forever, it’s just not natural!”

“Hello, Misty.” Cinna chugs down the remaining purple drink which tastes like black berries and rubbing alcohol along with just a hint of mint.

“Have you met Brant yet? Oh! Or Clava? Where are they? Oh!” Misty suddenly runs off into the crowd, waving at someone.

‘Maybe I should make a run for it?’ Cinna thinks.

“Oh my, there he is!” A woman and a man suddenly slide up to Cinna, both with matching curly yellow wigs. “It’s Septimus’ new boy.”

Cinna smiles thinly deciding not to comment on his status as ‘new boy.’

“I am so glad he’s got you out finally,” the woman says, “we’ve heard about your talent in the clothing area but nothing more. He can’t keep his new lover locked up forever! Everyone should get to meet you!”

Cinna blinks. “Wait, what?”

“Cinna?” The man cocks his head. “Unusual name. Didn’t have a mother named Cinnamon perhaps? I had a cousin called Clove and here I am Basil, herb trend in the family. Found it rather clever myself.”

Cinna clears his throat. “Can we back up a moment?”

“Tell me, Cinna,” the woman says with a gossip grin, “how did you get him? Septimus has always been such a lone wolf. Believe me, I made a try for him myself but nothing came of it. Quite a shame.”

“Speak for yourself dear,” the man snaps his fingers and twists the pink flower in his lapel, “been there and had that, not as exciting as you would expect.”

She shrieks with laugher. “Oh, you old liar, you never did! As though Septimus would care for you anyway, you are far too tall.”

Cinna can’t decide which he wants to comment on: why does height matter, are they calling him short, or how in the world they got the idea he and Septimus are lovers? As a compromise he flashes a smile, says “one second,” and runs for his life.

Cinna hits the drink table and grabs something red; he hopes just wine.

“Cinna!” Lilac appears at Cinna’s right with her sister Petal beside her. “Have you seen your gift table? There’s one of those self piercers in there, I know it! The kind which can go under the skin. Oh! I am so jealous.”

“Are you going to open them tonight?” Petal asks. “Please say yes!”

Cinna shakes his head. “My… my what?”

Lilac and Petal each grasp one of his arms and turn him around to the left. He sees near the door where he’d missed it before a long table piled at least three gifts high and a dozen gifts long.

“Oh.” Cinna stares and swallows a gulp of the red liquid with a hiss, not wine, more like liquid fire. 

“Cinna, come dance!” Petal says, slipping her hand into his.

“Now? I –” But Petal pulls him along before he barely starts his sentence.

For next two hours Petal and Lilac twirl him back and forth between them, bouncing to the raucous tunes or swaying with ease when the music slows. Other guests slide over asking to ‘cut in’ or for ‘just one dance’ with the lucky birthday boy. Cinna gives up protesting and lets it all flow through him. 

“You must tell me all about you and Septimus,” a woman with silver tattoos curling under her cheeks insists. “As far as I know you are the first person he’s been with in years!”

“Well, it’s not actually…”

“Oh no,” another woman grabs his arm, “Ignore Thalia, she only wants to get Septimus for herself, learn your secrets. Me?” She trails a hand up Cinna’s arm. “Well, I’d just like to borrow you for a night.” 

“Portia!” A man with a thin goatee to Cinna’s left wags a finger. “You behave. Septimus finally gets himself a man and what do you do? Swoop in to steal him away at the first chance.” He gives Cinna a look as if they share some obvious secret.

Portia ‘tut tuts.’ “Well, it’s hard to resist! Look at him.”

The other man makes a ‘hmm’ noise. “You have a point.”

Cinna wonders if tributes feel this way.

Unexpectedly, Septimus appears at Cinna’s side and whispers. “I’m come to rescue you for a moment.”

“Thank you,” Cinna replies with complete sincerity.

“It’s time for the cake.”

Cinna chuckles, cake is something Cinna understands. “Chocolate?” 

“One of them is.”

“One?”

Septimus steers Cinna to the front as two men wheel out a large cart. The cart holds five cakes, each four layers high.

“And for the finishing touch!” Septimus cries to the suddenly hushed crowd.

One of the two men clicks a long lighter and all the candles ignite at once, flashing and sparking like small fireworks. The sparks increase in intensity and suddenly blaze all together. Fire shoots up into the air, forming together to read ‘Happy Birthday Cinna’ above all their heads.

The crowd claps and cheers, shouting congratulations as the fire message sparks and slowly fades away. Cinna stares at the smoke and smiles despite himself.

“Let’s cut the cake and really dig in!” Septimus shouts clapping a hand on Cinna’s shoulder.

All of Cinna’s previous birthdays certainly pale by comparison in extravagance.

Hour and hours and hours later the two of them escape from the depleted party which seems to be just fine continuing without them. (Cinna has no idea where all the presents are going to go and in fact he really doesn’t care. He probably won’t use a single one). Cinna is glad to finally be back where everything is quiet. Also, one little matter requires clarification.

“Septimus…” Cinna starts as soon as the door to the apartment closes behind him. “Did you…”

Septimus pauses with one arm still in his teal coat. “Yes?”

Cinna sighs; if anything he’s direct. “Did you know everyone seems to think we’re lovers?”

Septimus barks a laugh and finishes taking off his coat. “Talking to gossips, were you? Oh dear, I hope they didn’t berate you with too many insane questions.”

“I suppose that depends upon your definition of insane.”

Septimus hangs his coat on one of the many hooks in the wall beside the door and walks toward his living room, “Likely my definition is quite different from yours, Cinna, but to answer your question, yes, I knew.”

“Well,” Cinna follows Septimus and stops behind the couch closest to the door as Septimus sits in a maroon chair by the large glass windows over looking the street below, “why would they – okay, yes, I know how they might think that but…” Cinna crosses his arms over his chest and flicks up a hand. “That’s not your long game plan is it?” Cinna thinks about how he’s been here for two years now. “Very long?”

Septimus purses his lips and shrugs. “Well, there is a bit of an age discrepancy between us, not that such a thing stops many people here in the Capitol, but no, I am not playing a long game.”

“Good,” Cinna interrupts with a pointed look.

Septimus waves a hand. “Oh, hush. As a matter of fact, that sort of thing really holds no interest to me.”

“What, gossip?”

“No, sex.”

Cinna blinks. “Really?”

“Are you disappointed?”

“That’s not the word I would choose.”

“Obviously.” Septimus stands up and walks to a large wine rack on the far wall and pulls off a bottle of red, obviously a product of district one. “Now, shall we say happy birthday?”

Septimus pulls two glasses off of the rack below the wine and shakes them at Cinna so they clink together. 

Cinna stands still and drums his fingers on his arm once.

“Don’t let it bother you, Cinna.” Septimus rocks the glasses back and forth slowly. “There is no way to stop gossip so best just to let it flow as it does. It keeps them happy and certainly doesn’t hurt us.”

“No?”

“If anything it helps.”

Cinna raises an eyebrow. “Brings in customers?”

“Look, he’s the genius.” Septimus shifts the glasses so they clink again. “Now get the bottle opener before I have to open this through more barbaric means.”

Cinna makes a ‘hmm’ noise then slips into the kitchen to retrieve the bottle opener. They uncork and pour the wine, glasses taped together.

“Happy 18th, Cinna.”

Cinna only smiles and sips the sharp red liquid.

“Best drink up,” Septimus advises, downing his glass in one swift gulp, “I’m not sure you’re ready to be sober for the rest.”

Cinna pauses, glass half way up for another sip. “The rest?”

“What? You thought it was just one party?”

The parties last all week long, in fact. Every night they go to a new location – a restaurant rented out for the night, Septimus’ good friend Sarra’s house, the designer club – full of foods and drinks and music and an endless parade of painted people. 

Cinna meets every person who ever bought clothing from Septimus or ever knew Septimus in social circles or just happened to walk by the store and notice it was purple. Misty and Lilac dance with him every night and Cinna fears for his feet long term. He gives in to all of it and lets the complete decadence swallow him whole.

“You must have some cake, you are the birthday boy!” Cinna’s new friend Rosa holds up a tray full.

Cinna tries to push the plate aside. “I’ve had three already!”

“Always room for more!”

“My turn for a dance,” Marius exclaims, grabbing Cinna’s hand.

“Wait, just one song to rest my feet.”

“You can rest when you pass out.” Marius twirls Cinna close. “Not now!”

Every party blurs into color and sound – music on harps and flutes and pianos and guitars – a steady beat that carries through every day, one bleeding into the next without pause. Pure celebration.

“Just don’t get alcohol poisoning on me,” Septimus says as he finishes his own glass of wine. “That would positively ruin the cheer.”

Cinna brings home a different girl or boy every night because when one is over indulging why not with sex too? 

Septimus apparently has no qualms about other people’s sexual appetites. “Eighteen is the time for such sexual excess after all, not something one waits to be older for.”

First there comes Chloe with the black hair and the purple eyes who squeaks as if being tickled. Then Cesare who works Cinna so hard they forgo sleep. After that Ashton and Regulus in the same night which can really only be described as bliss. (Cinna would never have even thought of it if Misty hadn’t shoved the three men out the door together). Lilac even presses him against a wall at one point, all lips and hands, before she laughs and drags him back into the thick of the dance floor.

The week of parties ends at home up in Septimus’ apartments (Cinna still feels a bit odd calling it ‘theirs’) and though the location feels less grand, this party matters the most. The people Cinna actually knows – Septimus, Misty, Lilac, Petal, some of their regular customers who Cinna knows better, and even some of their designer cohorts who partake in the cut throat battle for clients – all attend with well wishes, presents, and more bottles of wine than comfortably fit in Septimus’ bar.

“Happy birthday to Cinna!” the cry together and the night lasts until morning with laughter and stories.

“Is this how you live?” Cinna asks when the party finally diminishes to only Septimus and himself and quiet returns. “An endless stream of party after party with little bits of work in between?” Cinna makes quotation marks with his fingers.

“Yes.”

Cinna scoffs and then balks as his stomach lurches dangerously to the left. He breathes slowly, waving a lazy hand in the air. “Party for birthdays, party for the hunger games, party for a new clothing line, party for Fridays, party because the wine is going bad and it needs to be finished.”

Cinna laughs, the feeling of total excess starting to weigh on him after so much immersion.

“Don’t be a pessimist, Cinna, you know that’s not all it.”

Cinna sighs loudly. “Yes, I know. You can blame your alcohol influence on me for the sass.”

Septimus giggles in that excessively high Capitol way Misty and Lilac always do. “Life here certainly is one big game, I know. But then again everyone must also make money.”

“It doesn’t grow on trees?”

“You have to own one of those trees first.”

They both laugh again.

“It’s nothing like home,” Cinna whispers, “nothing at all.”

“Still full of people, good and bad. The difference is only supply.”

Cinna shifts his head on the edge of the couch to look properly at Septimus. Septimus raises his eyebrows and sips at the remains of a clear blue drink. He smiles at Cinna’s skeptical expression.

“Maybe, Cinna, it’s your home now too.” He knocks back the drink. “Happy birthday.”

 

Somewhere along the way Cinna let’s go of the small coil of anger inside him. He understands Septimus’ motives even if he doesn’t agree with them. He knows his talent is definitely put to use here and encouraged. Staying angry and letting resentment rise up when a gold brooch reminds him of his lost sister gains nothing and only causes him pain. He doesn’t need to forgive but he can move on.

So, Cinna moves on. His designs expand, more color, more flair but still that root of elegance over opulence. 

“Let’s try blue for you,” Cinna says as he circles around a client, analyzing hair and height and how the true hue of her skin could use a little water to it. “Something like the ocean perhaps.”

(Septimus smiles and only hands Cinna the measuring tape).

He even learns to like the feeling of ease, of comfort surrounding everything in the Capitol. Nothing is perfect, no one is without fault and Cinna still remembers feeling cold all the time, wishing for less hours of work and more hours of joy. He even learns to simply smile when someone says something particularly privileged and ignorant, falling back on his childhood silence and thought.

“Cinna, I think perhaps you are happy.” Septimus raises his eyebrows in mock surprise.

Cinna smiles at Septimus. “Against all my plans.”

He even learns to bear the Hunger Games. 

For the 69th Hunger Games, Cinna cajoles Septimus into coughing up the money to buy two loaves of bread to send to the male tribute from district eight. The boy, Matthew, swept past the other tributes so fast with a backpack and sword from the cornucopia that Cinna hoped just maybe, with a little help, Matthew could get out. Unfortunately, the girl tribute from district four had other plans and Matthew died three days after Cinna’s gift of bread.

“Don’t fret, Cinna,” Septimus says, that warm tone again, “you made something better even for just a little while.”

“I try.”

The thought always returns: maybe he can even change the Capitol a bit, make some sort of a difference if he tries.

 

After working with Septimus for four years, many of Cinna’s best ideas marked as Septimus’ – “for the boutique, Cinna, not stealing” – and only two weeks before Cinna turns twenty, the Gamemakers call Septimus to become a stylist for the Hunger Games.


	3. The 71st Hunger Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The girl is called, ‘Mara Clemens.’ The camera finds her as she steps from the crowd. Her eyes stretch wide and her hands obviously shake... Cinna instantly wants to take care of her._

“This is my chance, Cinna, our chance!”

Cinna sews a strip of blue on the edge of a lapel. “Ours? Hasn’t this always been your plan?’

Septimus shoots Cinna a glare. “Don’t imply I have no talent.”

“You don’t.”

“I certainly do.”

“Well, not talent like mine.”

Septimus turns with the letter in this hand, eyes wide. Cinna usually shows more deference and modesty about his own work. Cinna puts down the pin and turns with a slight smirk of his lips.

Septimus scoffs and shakes his head. “You know how it works, Cinna. You need a name first and now yours only exists in connection to mine.”

“Implying I may one day break free of you?”

“Leave me for a younger lover?”

They both smile and chuckle at the joke, ever a part of their life.

“I would have left you by now if that were true.”

Septimus scoffs again. “Doubtful.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I always do, Cinna!”

Cinna pulls a pin from out of the jacket on the dress form in front of him. “Couldn’t miss it.”

“You’re coming with me, Cinna.” Cinna stops and looks up. “It may be my name going to the games but you will be my team.”

“Planning on ‘borrowing’ my ideas?”

Septimus folds the letter and slides it back into the envelope. “I have ideas too, Cinna, as you certainly know. Yours were needed back then to bring something new to the Capitol, something new to bring more notice to me; Capitol flair with district sense.” He pauses then puts the envelope down on the table. “The Hunger Games have nothing to with sense.”

Cinna stares at Septimus as if seeing him for the first time. He never hears anyone in the Capitol acknowledge the wrongness of the Hunger Games, the absurdity. Though, Septimus is a bit different than most in the Capitol. His form of excess is not as material; he wants the fame most of all which tends to make him smarter. Though, clearly, Septimus does not find the games wrong enough to oppose them instead of capitalizing from them.

Finally Cinna tilts his head. “So, why am I coming to the games with you then if my designs were just to boost your name?”

“Well, you are my lover, aren’t you?”

Cinna gives him a withering look. “But all your designs? Why even bother with me anymore since you’ve gained your place?”

‘Could I go home?’ Cinna thinks.

“Because, Cinna,” Septimus explains, “I am going to pay you back.”

The Stylists for the Hunger Games do not work on the event year round. The main ‘festivities’ usually only last a month and, unless your tribute wins, then the outfit making is over until the next year. However, there is still prep beforehand and one has to be prepared for the after celebration and victory tour should one’s tribute win.

“The boutique is still staying open.” Septimus stands in front of one of the full length mirrors up on the second floor. “It’ll be more popular than ever now with an official Hunger Games Stylist.” He grins and squirts purple dye into his hair.

“So you’ve decided to match the shop?”

Septimus sighs down at Cinna on the first floor. “Ever the district citizen, still no culture for the change of one’s look.”

“I have culture.” Cinna smiles and waves a hand over his long black coat, black satin shirt, and black pants.

Septimus grins and chuckles, turning back to the mirror. “You could let me pierce your nose perhaps or we could add length to your hair with synthetic feathers. A new hair enhancement parlor has opened over by Pearl’s shop.”

“Now you’re just trying to annoy me.” Cinna hits keys on the cashbox, locking it for the night.

“Here.” Septimus turns, his hair now solid purple, and holds up what looks like eyeliner. “Come and try this.”

Cinna swivels his chair around and stands up from the till. He twists up the stairs and stops next to Septimus at the top. Cinna glances at the eyeliner then back to Septimus, unconvinced.

“Come now, humor me.”

Cinna reaches out and takes the black cylinder. Septimus touches Cinna’s shoulder and steers him past the try on booths to the row of mirrors against the wall. He stops Cinna in front and hovers behind. Cinna looks at the eyeliner in his hand then twists it open. The color is gold.

Cinna blinks hard then looks at Septimus behind him in the mirror.

“I thought you’d like it,” he says quietly. “Try it.”

Cinna feels as though his hand may start to tremble – Cora with glistening gold down her back, gold in the walls of their shared bedroom – but they stay still. He hasn’t used gold in a design once since coming to the Capitol. Cinna dips the applicator properly in the paint then coats one thick line over each eyelid. He drops his hand.

“Perfect.” 

Cinna turns his eyes up to Septimus still behind him. “All right.”

The 70th Hunger Games ended two months ago – Annie Cestra of district four out swimming the rest – so planning for the 71st Hunger Games are in full swing for the Gamemakers who have a whole arena to create. The stylists have less yet to do except plan and Septimus needs a district. Incumbent stylists usually stay with their districts; obviously those from the previous year’s winner stay as they have a tour of Panem to design. Yet, Stylists are sometimes thrown out for whatever reason as well as shuffled around. After all, everyone has a card to play or leverage to use or fame to attain. Some stylists remain there for decades while others only last a year before being replaced.

Septimus ends up with district five – power. Cinna finds it ironically apt an assignment for Septimus.

Cinna newly made up with gold and Septimus in Boutique purple, they attend the stylist party. Before the next year’s Hunger Games all the new (and old) stylists show off their best creations – some products of the past Hunger Games and others brand new creations.

“I may borrow one or two of your ideas, Cinna.”

“If you say the red and gold dress, you’re going to the party alone.”

“Good thing I didn’t say it then.”

For once clothes highlight the party instead of the food and drink (though plenty of refreshments line tables as well). To add extra fun to the affair the stylists’ creations are worn by models all posing and smiling in the center of the room. Part of the game involves guessing who made what.

“We have a model?”

Septimus laughs. “Of course we do, how else would we be part of the game?”

“The game,” Cinna mocks.

“Behave.” Septimus passes Cinna a pad of paper. “Make yourself useful and guess.”

“Who’s our model?”

“Misty.”

Cinna peers around the people. “Won’t that give us away? Is the object to have your outfit guessed or to not have your outfit guessed?”

Septimus chuckles and Cinna gives him a look. 

Septimus shakes his head. “I was kidding Cinna, it’s not Misty. The event planners hire models.”

Cinna turns and stares ahead at the people in the middle alternating poses every minute. “All my dreams of modeling that white dress you made are dashed.”

“I’m sure you can wear it sometime.”

The first hour of the party involves a lot of lulls of silence followed by crows of delight when someone guesses who designed an outfit and, instead of keeping it to themselves to get a full card, tells everyone around their success. The game of ‘guess that outfit’ does not exactly have a set number of rules that anyone seems to follow nor a winner over all. Septimus enjoys how often his ruffled pearl gown with the pink flowers around the neck and gem studded train is recognized. 

One of the quiet favorites of the evening is a black double breasted women’s suit with a straight up collar at the top, a brass hook to close it about the neck. The bottom of the jacket makes V shapes at the hips and stops at the waist in the front, sloping down into the back so it appears almost like tails with four stepped layers of fabric. The edges at the bottom of the jacket, around the collar, and all both cuffs are lined with shinny black leather. Each button is a smooth black marble. The pants cling tightly to the legs all the way down to the ankles with another line of black leather at the bottom. The outfit gains note because it is the only outfit among the models which includes no color at all.

Unlike Septimus and the others who wish to be found out, complimented and cheered over, Cinna delights in everyone noticing his design but no one knowing who designed it. (Not to mention that technically Cinna should not have an outfit on a model at all since he is not a Hunger Games stylist; just along for the ride).

“Stop looking so smug,” Septimus chides as another person makes a circle around Cinna’s model in complete confusion.

“I will when you do.”

As the newest member of the Hunger Games stylists, Septimus is given a welcome by the organizer and Septimus himself makes an overly flowery speech about how very, very pleased he is to be there.

“So many years in the fashion scene of the Capitol has made me familiar with each and every one of you in the most pleasing of ways: competition.”

Everyone chuckles; Cinna almost throws up in his mouth.

“And to have gained a place at the most televised and prized event for any designer to be involved with, well.” Septimus grins and winks in Cinna’s direction. “A positive dream come true!”

“Long time dream, Septimus,” A woman calls and everyone laughs again.

Septimus raises an eyebrow and wags a finger at her. “Be happy you’re still on district seven, Malise, wouldn’t want me as your team mate and have me outshine all your blue outfits with a change of color?”

The crowd makes ‘oooos’ of challenge. Malise only opens her mouth in mock insult provoking another laugh from the crowd.

“But jest aside,” Septimus continues, “I am pleased to be among your ranks and I wait to impress you and everyone in the Capitol.”

Everyone cheers and claps, a few cries of ‘here here!’ Cinna smiles and claps along, happy to see Septimus so overjoyed. Despite reservations about the games themselves, Cinna can’t help feeling some excitement over what is to come.

During the following months while district four enjoys triumph and Annie Cestra tours Panem, accompanied by her mentor Finnick Odair while saying little words herself due to the obvious deterioration of her mental state, Septimus and Cinna brainstorm ideas for their future tribute together. Septimus focuses on the color yellow almost obsessively along with any sort of shinny fabric he can get his hands on.

“It’s power,” Septimus says over and over, “all about light, so she should shine.”

“It doesn’t have to be yellow to shine,” Cinna shrugs, “yellow can be a hard color.”

“It’s going to be yellow.”

Cinna doodles in his sketch book, lovely moleskin now, long sweeping gowns for the interview - jagged edges sometimes like crackling electricity or off whites with glossy fabric to catch the natural light. Septimus drafts outfits for the parade ranging in eccentricity, sometimes with wires all over the body connecting to a crown or other times solid white gems.

“How much are you going to spend on this?” Cinna questions when Septimus comes home with diamonds to experiment with.

“Oh, Cinna,” Septimus laughs in that annoying, slightly pretentious way, “the Games foot the bill for all of this.”

“I hope they don’t cap you off.”

Septimus drops the bags in front of Cinna and smiles smugly. “They won’t.”

“Do we get the extras?” Lilac asks, peeking over Septimus’ shoulder.

“If you make the expense report for the Gamemakers then we’ll see!”

Cinna tries to give suggestions to Septimus. He has an idea about combining yellow and orange along with the diamonds Septimus gathered to reflect the city lights while the chariots parade, crackling like electricity.

“What about light bulbs?” Septimus says instead. “Hmm... maybe a dress which looks like a light bulb!”

“Beating it over the head a bit there?”

Septimus raises his eyebrows at Cinna. “Weren’t you required to watch the games? There is nothing too over the top!”

Cinna covers his eyes with his hand. “There is always an over the top...”

A large number of outfits hide in the back room of the Boutique, failures and hideous ‘successes.’ Cinna plans to burn them all when Septimus is distracted. For his own fashion education, Cinna learns to think about clothing involving electronics and battery power. (Unlike Septimus he tries to make his ideas tasteful or subtle). 

“We could even dye her hair yellow!” Septimus shouts with delight. “Oh! I hope there’s no rule against that.”

“Enough yellow, Septimus!” Cinna throws a ball of cloth at Septimus.

“Or wait, could make her interview dress completely out of wires!”

“...What?”

“No, no, of course not. But, oh, we could go backward to oil lamps!”

Cinna worries more each week about how far Septimus is going to fall into the Hunger Games insanity pool.

When the 71st Hunger Games finally begin Septimus learns he shares a district with Clava Peeks. Her name rings a bell in the back of Cinna’s head until he remembers Misty meant to introduce them back at Cinna’s eighteenth bash.

“So, is she one you’ve made an enemy of?”

Septimus pointedly does not look at Cinna. “I wouldn’t say I have, but she may be a tad bitter.”

“Bitter?”

“Well, she was the stylist for district two for three years and now she’s been bumped down the pecking order.” Septimus flashes Cinna a smile. “I suppose that may sting.”

The stylists all watch the reapings together at the Capitol City Games Headquarters. The by-line for the watching is something like ‘share ideas’ or ‘solidarity in profession’ but really it serves as an opportunity for rivalry, boasting how one’s tribute appears to be more of a fighter or more attractive. Cinna tries to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach.

“I believe you’ll be having the girl from five and I’ll have the boy,” Clava says as she sits down beside Septimus.

Clava sports a green suit with feathers on the shoulders and glittering gems all over the jacket. Her eyes are so painted the layers reach her hair line and her skin stretches unnaturally tight whenever she moves her mouth. To go with the eye make up, extra long fake lashes cling to her eye lids and her long wig curls up at her shoulder as if it were a lily upside down. To top off the outfit, a large fuchsia hat shaped like a bell sits on her head. She practically screams ‘stylist.’

“Well, Clava,” Septimus says with his ever pasted smile, “that sounds like perfection.”

Clava’s eyes peer over Septimus at Cinna for one moment to flash a knowing look before she crosses her legs and turns back to the screens.

“You need to get a new boyfriend,” Cinna whispers to Septimus.

“And hurt you like that?” Septimus whispers back. “How dare I.”

Cinna sighs and fluffs Septimus’ hair with mock affection. “Well, then I’m breaking up with you.”

“My heart is crushed,” Septimus deadpans.

Then the screens blink to life and the reapings flash before them. As often happens districts one, two, and four monopolize much of the time with all the volunteers. One girl from two attacks a Peacekeeper when denied the slotted tribute spot.

One of the stylists from two moans, “That I could have worked with. Just pick her!”

A few other people snicker.

The show continues, drinks passed around, then district five’s reaping plays. Cinna, Septimus, and Clava perk up.

The girl is called, ‘Mara Clemens.’ The camera finds her as she steps from the crowd. Her eyes stretch wide and her hands obviously shake.

“Oh no,” Septimus groans quietly, “I hope she’s not a crier.”

“If she is I’ll be sure to use your handkerchief,” Cinna replies darkly.

Septimus glares. “So helpful.”

Then the boy’s name ‘Archer Banes’ rings out. 

The boy strides into the center; he looks about seventeen, and almost beats his Peacekeeper guards up to the podium.

“Yes,” Clava grins and claps her hands. “This one will be fun!” She looks smugly at Septimus. “Mine will certainly outlast yours!”

Septimus raises his eyebrows. “Perhaps but mine will be far better dressed beforehand.”

Clava squawks and starts a retort but the district six stylists hiss at them to quiet down

Cinna watches the girl from five, Mara, as her escort makes congratulations. Her eyes glisten with tears, she must be about fifteen, and her hands still shake. Cinna instantly wants to take care of her.

“I’m coming tonight when you meet her.”

“Unnecessary, I have some ideas for her.”

“I meant more so you don’t scare her more than she already is.”

Septimus turns to Cinna. “Am I so scary?”

Cinna chuckles. “Oh, you will be when you start hanging light bulbs on her.”

Septimus blinks. “How did you know we’d decided on that?”

Cinna’s face falls. “…really?”

“Light bulbs!” Clava squeaks then quiets as if one of the other stylists may steal their idea. “I love it.”

Cinna puts a hand over his eyes. He should have known Septimus would end up there.

The next day, Septimus and Clava send Cinna running around the city to buy dozens of light bulbs. Cinna buys strings of holiday lights, lamp bulbs, long tube lights, even some self powering bulbs. He keeps trying to think of a way to resurrect this ridiculous design plan. Perhaps he could forget to buy the bulbs?

“Misty?” Cinna runs to the Boutique, boxes in hand. “Is Septimus here?”

She shakes her head. “Already back at the remake center.”

Cinna groans then jerks his head up close into Misty’s space. “What did he take? Has he made something already?”

Misty puts a finger on his nose. “Long sash.”

Cinna stares. “Sash?”

Misty drops her hand and nods. “Yep! I think he’s going to add the light bulbs and wrap it around her.” Misty wiggles her eyebrows. “Maximum skin.”

Cinna huffs. “Was the fabric clear?”

Misty pouts and shifts her feet. “Hmmm… no, I don’t think so.”

“At least there’s that.”

“Oh!” Misty claps her hands. “He said to tell you to bring a battery pack!”

Cinna groans. “He’s insane!”

“I think you mean genius!”

Cinna stares at her a moment to figure out if she’s being sarcastic. Obviously not. Then he swoops back out the door.

At the Remake center Cinna finds his way through the twisting halls and multitude of floors to the suite for district five. He meets Septimus’ prep team, two women with blue and purple hair, one much smaller than the other and enough piercings all over her to hang curtains with.

“Septimus?” Cinna asks. They cock their heads at him. “I’m Cinna.”

“Oh!” they nod knowingly and point to a red door.

Cinna knocks, balancing the boxes on one arm. The door opens almost immediately and Septimus grins so brightly you would believe _he_ was the electric tribute.

“Cinna!” He shouts and grabs the boxes from Cinna’s arms. “Wonderful! I can get to proper work.” He flashes the burning smile back in the room. “I will see you in awhile my dear!”

Septimus closes the door behind him and grabs Cinna’s arm. “Come along, we have a lot to do.”

“Wait, what about -”

“Oh no, no,” Septimus drags them down the hall to another room. “We have to get these all on then wrap her up for the parade!”

Cinna has no choice but to submit. They spend the next twenty minutes attaching all manner of light bulbs onto a long sash of shinny pearl fabric. They mostly put on the smaller ones now and Septimus plans to add a few more of the larger ones once they get the sash around her.

Once satisfied, Septimus runs them back down the hall and into the room with the red door. Inside sits Mara in a white robe, long brown hair straight down past her shoulders. She turns to them slowly, hands clenched tightly in her lap. To her credit, her eyes are dry.

“So?” she asks in a quiet voice.

“Robe off dear, we have some winding to do.”

Cinna smiles thinly and takes her robe for her. Septimus and Cinna wrap the cloth around her covering appropriate areas but still leaving her arms, left shoulder, and stomach exposed for the future pleasure of the Capitol viewers. Cinna holds fabric while Septimus adds pins so nothing falls down, a triangle made around her hips and the sash ending down her left leg.

“Ah! The string of lights!” Septimus suddenly snaps in the other direction and runs from the room.

Cinna and Mara stare at the door as it slams behind him.

“Oh my, he really is going to light you up…”

“Literally?” Mara asks.

Cinna turns and smiles. “If it works; we’ll see.”

“He can’t light up all these though,” Mara explains, “there’s no connection between them and the fabric certainly won’t work for that.”

“Do you work in one of the plants?” Cinna asks.

Mara nods. “I was an assistant connections operator; I helped look after the leads and exports to district seven.”

Cinna nods because he really has no clue how the electric system of the country all connects let alone what exactly everyone in district five does to keep the lights on through Panem.

“Are you another part of my prep team?” Mara asks Cinna.

Cinna shakes his head. “Not exactly, I work for Septimus.”

“But doesn’t the prep team work for Septimus?”

“Well yes, but I work for Septimus outside of the Hunger Games.”

Mara nods slightly, “I see,” though her tone implies she doesn’t.

Cinna opens his mouth about to ask ‘are you all right’ but he stops himself. He already knows the answer to that question so why ask. He reaches out and squeezes her hand once. She turns to him in surprise, a few light bulbs clinking against each other as she does. Cinna almost laughs because she does look rather absurd just wrapped in a light bulb trail. Perhaps the effect will appear better from afar. There will certainly be no doubt as to her district. Cinna wonders how Clava used the light bulbs.

“You’re different,” Mara says and Cinna focuses on her thoughtful expression, “You’re not... I don’t know, fake?”

“Not painted a different color with whiskers, you mean?”

She laughs once then stops abruptly. Cinna knows she is shocked at herself for being able to laugh. Cinna takes her hand and squeezes it again before letting go.

“I’ll be here to bring you just a bit of sanity, all right?” Cinna says softly.

She nods then the door opens again.

“Here we are!” Septimus steps forward with a string of lights, battery pack attached to the end. “Let’s try this!”

They loop the middle of the strand around her neck twice then come up the back and weave it through her hair like a braid so all of her hair and all of the lights pile on top of her head almost like a crown. Then, when they run out of cord, they tuck the battery pack at the base of her hair, hidden beneath some of her dark locks. Septimus uses a large coral clip to keep the battery in place and adds bobby pins here and there for stray strands. 

“I do hope this works,” Septimus says then reaches back into her hair and presses the button.

The lights all around Mara’s head and neck come to life, shinning brightly. The lights on her head look beautiful, peppered around through the twists of hair surprising and tasteful. The ones around her neck, luckily, are not bright enough to cause any adverse shadows so the affect highlights her full cheeks and dark brown eyes. If you look only from the neck up she is a delight. The entire ensemble together, however, appears more comical, half lit and half not as though she was an appliance store window.

“Fantastic!” Septimus claps his hands. “Oh, district five all over!”

“All over...” Cinna mutters but keeps on a smile for Mara’s sake.

Septimus certainly has lost his mind a bit. Cinna reminds himself, at least, that the focus of the cameras does tend toward the face and she will be in a chariot. Perhaps, the crowds will be dazzled by the lit up hair and ignore the rest of the haphazard light bulb show. Then again maybe they will care more about the exposed skin.

“Time to send you off to your parade!” Septimus beams.

They walk out of the room and Cinna puts a hand on Mara’s shoulder. She turns to look back at him.

“You look beautiful.”

She frowns. “Really?”

“You light up the room.”

She laughs quietly again at his silly joke and just nods. He points to her head and makes an ‘ooo’ face. She smiles and touches one hand to the mix of twisting hair and lights.

“You’ll be sure to get attention,” Cinna says, “positively electric.”

“Thank you,” she says as Clava comes out with the boy - a similar sash around his body - and their escort Bliss Poole takes them to the elevators.

Cinna rides the main elevators up to the viewing pavilion of the remake center. The building is the start of the parade around City Circle so they have a view of all the crowds filling the street and the stands, people smashed into every space available. The prep teams for all the districts fill the room, drinks in hand, as the stylists slowly follow. Then the trumpets sound and the chariots for district one appear on the road.

“Enjoy the view?”

Cinna turns to Septimus as he slides beside Cinna. “Was she all right?”

“Our tribute?”

“Mara, yes.”

“The battery seems to be good and should last at least an hour though I would hope more. All of the pins seem secure so there should be no disasters! Though the outfits for four this year are quite splendid, sea shells, lovely.”

“No, I meant, was _she_ all right.”

Septimus peers down at Cinna and he sighs. “She’s still alive right now, Cinna, and to her that is certainly all right.”

Cinna huffs and crosses his arms, turning back to the parade. By now district four has rolled into the street, both tributes stone faced but elegant with a suit and dress accented by pink shells, the girl with clam shells pinning up her hair. Then their district comes out onto the street. The lights shine fairly well on the camera though perhaps not as striking as Cinna would have hoped. It is hard to compete with all the glowing screens above the streets and the celebratory lights of the city. Still, against her hair the lit up bulbs are instantly noticeable and Cinna sees a number of people around them pointing and smiling with surprise.

“I didn’t realize we were actually lighting up our tributes.” Clava walks over to them with a frown. “You could have shared that with me so I could have lit some on Archer.”

“You knew we were using light bulbs,” Septimus says. “We had discussed that.”

She frowns further and juts her chin at them. “We both agreed on the sashes but you go ahead and add the hair lights so my tribute is completely eclipsed!”

“Well, they are competitors,” Septimus replies calmly, “thus, so are we.”

Cinna glances back and forth between them, waiting for Clava to jump the few feet between them and claw Septimus’ face. Instead she frowns so far her lips may melt off her face then stalks away.

“Wow...”

“If she had talent I might feel bad,” Septimus twists the end of his mustache with one hand.

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

Cinna and Septimus spend the next day after the parade, while the tributes are all at the training center, designing and creating Mara’s dress for the interview. As expected, Septimus insists on yellow. Though the color won’t be perfect on Mara she at least has dark hair which will help balance the color with her pale skin. They agree on thick straps for the dress which hang over her shoulders to be loose around her biceps. Septimus demands a low, diving cut for some cleavage and tight around her torso. Cinna think the dress should be long with swish after the knee, elegant. However, Septimus goes with short, tight and stopping above her knee to make her provocative.

“Shiny fabric, of course,” Septimus consoles Cinna, “must keep our girl electric.”

Cinna shrugs. “Fine, fine, but no light bulbs.”

“Oh, of course not, Cinna. Can’t repeat, can we?”

They watch the announcement of the training scores on the second floor of the apartment, Septimus still mulling over yellow shoes or red shoes. He lines up about five different pairs while the announcer on the screen presents district 1 (a score of nine for Blake Hardin and a score of ten for Felicia Black).

“I like the boots,” Septimus points to the one pair, “but if we go with the heels then we get more leg.”

“Wasn’t the showing of the leg the point of your short dress design?”

Septimus nods, “True,” and throws the boots over his shoulder, nearly hitting the wall.

“You’re going to break something.”

“It’s my house.”

“I live here too.”

Septimus snorts. “For now.”

Cinna furrows his eyebrows, slightly concerned. “Are you planning on kicking me out?”

Septimus grins at him. “Joking, my dear boy.”

Cinna rolls his eyes.

Kathryn Meeks of district three comes out with a score of six which is amusing at least in reference to her last name.

“What do you think Mara will score?” Cinna asks.

Septimus leans back his chair and folds his hand. “Be careful, Cinna.”

Cinna frowns. “What?”

“You’re getting too attached.”

“Attached?” Cinna replies curtly.

“You cannot become friends with this girl.”

“Septimus!”

“No, Cinna, I only have to make her beautiful for the show - and will - but then it’s done unless she is very lucky.”

Cinna stares in shock. “Septimus, how can you be so cold!”

“I love what I do, Cinna. I adore designing and I can tell you I will be quite pleased to be on stage tomorrow. But emotional investment in this person we are dressing will only get you hurt.”

Then the screen flashes ‘Mara Clemens - 5.’ 

When Cinna lies in bed that night he wonders what Mara may have done in her private session and tries not to believe Septimus’ frank words. He stares at the ceiling thinking about Mara and her quiet, withdrawn face, unexpected laugh. Did she have siblings? Maybe a younger sister with blue eyes who called her ‘Ma’ to make fun of her being older? Or maybe she has an older brother who challenges her to races to school? What would her favorite subject be? How many hours would they go to work in district five? Do the power plants spit out smoke like the mills and factories of district eight? Does Mara like day time or night time more? When is Mara’s birthday? Cinna thinks she seems like a spring baby.

Cinna sighs and lays a hand over his eyes, trying to will sleep to come. Even if Cinna had considered taking Septimus’ words to heart it is too late; Cinna is already emotionally invested in Mara’s survival.

The next day they return to the remake center in the evening with a long thin box in Septimus’ hands and a small shoe box in Cinna’s. Septimus added a line of gold to the top of Mara’s dress as well as her shoes. He decided on the yellow heels with holes in the toes, only two inches high.

“It is going to be wonderful to be in front of the crowd tonight!” Septimus says as they ride the elevator. “Right there on stage with my creation.”

“I don’t know if Mara will feel the same.”

“Cinna, keep the cynicism in check until later, all right?”

Cinna shuts his mouth and knocks his box against Septimus’.

When they meet Mara again she paces back and forth in front of them, robe tight around her like some sort of security blanket. She frowns when they come in but keeps pacing.

“My dear, you must stand still,” Septimus coaxes.

“I’m too nervous,” she mutters.

“You will be even more so if you end up on stage in only your robe.”

“Stage...” she makes a sort of whimper. “Oh... on stage...”

Cinna places his box on the floor then steps forward and grips Mara’s shoulder. She stops and stares at him as if she’d only half believed he and Septimus were in the room.

“Let us dress you up and you will feel more confident, I promise.”

“I don’t like dresses,” she moans.

Cinna nods his head slowly and rubs a soothing circle on her shoulder. “You’ll like this one.”

Cinna breathes slowly and keeps rubbing her arm, gripping one of her hands. Finally, she nods as well and Cinna glances back at Septimus. He smiles.

They wheedle Mara out of her robe and into her dress; her one hand always searching for Cinna’s to keep her grounded. Septimus braids her hair up around her head with a yellow ribbon to call back to the pattern of lights from the parade, a reminder for the audience. Cinna clasps a necklace around Mara’s neck, one diamond to hang just above the dip of her dress. (Septimus wanted to draw the eyes of the crowd to Mara’s notable assets in the chest area).

“You look gorgeous,” Cinna says indicating the full length mirror on the wall.

Mara stares at herself, an expression of wonder on her face. “A proper lady,” she whispers and clenches Cinna’s hand.

“One last touch,” Septimus says and waves Cinna away from her.

Mara latches on to Cinna and her eyes widen in fear.

“Relax,” Septimus holds up a spray can; “I’m not going to plug you into the wall or anything.”

Cinna nods reassuringly and let’s go. “Close your eyes.”

She does as told and then Septimus sprays her all over in a twisting pattern from above. He backs up, waits for the mist to clear, then hums happily.

“You may open your eyes, Mara.”

She does and when she looks in the mirror she will see the spray has given her a shinny, golden sheen which catches the light.

“Power,” Septimus says with a large smile, “you are our electricity, my dear, the crowd will be simply beside themselves with how clever I am!” He chuckles. “You will light up the interview!”

“Any more puns?” Cinna mutters.

“I know you said some too.”

Mara breathes out slowly. “I’ve never looked like this before.”

“And you never will again!” Septimus grins.

Mara’s face falls suddenly. Cinna clears his throat and knocks Septimus with his elbow. Septimus glares at Cinna as he quickly puts the supplies away in the dress box.

“Well,” Septimus rolls his eyes then grins at Mara, “I must head to the stage while you await your turn. All the luck, Ms. Clemens.”

Septimus gives Cinna a last look then flounces from the room with a sweep of his red jacket. Cinna sighs and turns back to Mara. She stands before him shinning like electricity itself, hands twisting together.

“I suppose Bliss will be here soon to take me down,” Mara says.

Cinna reaches out and covers her hands with his. “What are you going to do for your interview?”

Mara sighs. “My mentor thinks I should try for the sexy approach.”

“Good thing Septimus went that way too.”

They both laugh and she tugs at the edge of her dress by one of her breasts. “I’ve never shown so much skin in my life.”

“You do look beautiful.”

“How is being beautiful going to help me in the arena?” Mara blurts out suddenly. “How is this dress going to make sure Felicia or that tall guy from ten don’t stab me in the chest? Are these heels going to be good to run in?”

Tears start build up in her eyes and she gasps. Cinna squeezes her trembling hands tightly. “Don’t think about that yet. Focus on this interview tonight. One thing at a time, all right? What are you going to do?”

“I told you...” she moans.

“No, I mean what are you actually going to do?” Cinna explains. “You’ll walk on stage with your head up and rocking your hips, slow and steady. When you smile don’t show your teeth, it’s more mysterious and alluring. When you sit down, cross your legs but do it slowly because you are gorgeous, you are sexy and you have all the time in the world. Make them follow your every motion with their eyes. Make them want you.”

Mara breathes slowly now, staring at him. “Alexa didn’t explain it that well.”

Cinna implies Alexa to be Mara’s mentor. “If you’re going for sexy the presentation is more important than what you say.”

Mara laughs dryly, “Alexa said I should lick my lips.”

Cinna laughs too. “I wouldn’t start with that. Maybe if you get some sort of approving response from the crowd.”

“How do you know all this?” Mara asks, faint disbelief in her tone.

“I’ve been on display at a few Capitol parties myself.”

“Not like this,” Mara says flatly.

“No.” Cinna breathes in and stands up straight. “But, what are you thinking about now?”

“Rock my hips and be slow?”

“And your smile?”

“No teeth.”

Mara sniffs, one tear escaping down her face. Cinna pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and lightly dabs it away.

“Mara?” Someone knocks on the door. “It’s time to go down.”

Mara lip trembles but Cinna gives her a stern look and it stops. He smiles widely at her. She pulls herself up straight then smiles back at him, no teeth.

“Just think of that one tribute, the one from seven with the toned chest? Think of him and how you can out sexy him.”

She laughs suddenly and squeezes his hand back. “Okay.”

“Good luck.”

She lets go of his hands and walks out of the room, off to the interviews.

Cinna watches the interviews back at the apartment, no chance to see Mara afterward and Cinna can do without the crowds. Sitting on the stage, Septimus appears calm and professional. Cinna notices the slight tick to his lips where he tries to keep from grinning too much. Cinna admits he is pleased to see Septimus so happy.

The interviews flow by in pure Hunger Games style. Blake from district one acts savage and eager. Tonia from district four plays the unconcerned card. Mara’s counterpart, Archer, behaves meticulous and calculating, a machine ready to enact a game plan. When Mara takes the stage she acts just as Cinna told her, a leisurely sway of the hips and puckered lips. She sits down with a hand on her thigh and crosses her legs for a full twenty seconds, one arm propped on the back of the chair. You’d never know she was nearly crying thirty minutes ago.

Caesar asks her the usual questions, how different is the Capitol from home, does she have any ideas for the arena.

“Well, wouldn’t want to get any cuts on my face at least,” Mara says with a wink to Caesar.

Someone in the audience wolf whistles causing more people to laugh and whoop. Mara flashes another wink to the crowd and licks her top lip. It would almost be obscene if Cinna wasn’t so proud at the act she puts on.

Then Caesar asks her. “So, what do you miss most about district five, I believe you have a younger brother?”

Mara’s sexy expression sags into a half smile, a blatant attempt to not frown.

“Yes.” Her voice cracks slightly. “He’s just eleven.”

“Oh, so he gets to try for the hot seat next year!” Caesar says with a laugh.

Cinna knows Caesar was trying to lighten the mood, bring back the humor of her glimmering up the scene. Maybe she could respond with ‘wouldn’t want him to steal my thunder’ or ‘not at hot as I am in it’ or some other such ridiculous comment. 

Instead Mara swallows, her mouth a straight line now. “May the odds be ever in his favor.”

The audience applauds lightly and Caesar bows her off stage.

“Damn it,” Cinna mutters because irony is not something most Capitol citizens can understand.

The day of the arena, Septimus and Cinna head over to the Capitol City Game Headquarters before they go to the Arena Game Headquarters. (The Arena Headquarters are located actually at the arena where all the mentors and stylists and past victors watch the games along with the richest sponsors ready to aid the most worthy tributes. So they can enjoy every minute of the bloodshed on the largest screens indoors yet closer than anyone else in the Capitol). Cinna makes a quick stop at the suite for district five.

Cinna knocks on the door and slips inside. “Hi, I know I shouldn’t be here but...”

Alexa who is the only one in their parlor right then nods. “They have to leave soon, go say goodbye.”

Cinna knocks on Mara’s door and enters when he hears a soft reply. Inside Mara sits on her bed, hands in her lap, now dressed in the dark green pants and jacket the Gamekeepers designed for this year.

“Hi,” Cinna walks over then sits beside her, “I wanted to say goodbye.”

“Forever,” Mara whispers.

“You don’t know that, Mara.”

“But it’s likely.”

“You just have to focus on getting through each day, each hour.”

Mara sniffs and tears drip down her cheeks. She doesn’t blubber or fall into his lap but she does reach out and grip his hand. Cinna covers both their hands with his other.

“I know you’re scared but I’m going to be rooting for you, okay?”

“Too bad you can’t get me to win by rooting for me.”

Cinna smiles. “I’ll do it anyway.”

“Why do you care about me so much, Cinna?” Mara asks, turning to look at him. “Isn’t this just a job to you? You don’t even get to sit on stage like Septimus getting credit.”

“I’m not allowed to care about you?”

Mara shrugs. “You’re very strange for a Capitol citizen.”

Cinna breathes in slowly. “I’ll tell you a secret, Mara. I wasn’t born in the Capitol.”

Mara clears her throat and the tears stop. “What?”

“I’m from district eight. My sister was reaped in the 66th Hunger Games and she died. So, I understand you’re afraid and I understand how serious this is. So, I just want you to know that someone here cares whether you live or die.”

Mara only blinks back at him then someone suddenly knocks on the door. 

Cinna stands up. “Try hard, Mara Clemens.” Cinna smiles. “I’m glad I met you.”

“I’m glad you were here, Cinna,” she replies.

Then Cinna leaves the room and hopes fervently Mara will last the day.

Cinna takes the main transport to the Arena Game Headquarters with the few people left. Septimus will see Mara off right before she goes up into the arena. Cinna hopes Septimus says something helpful to her. 

At the main hall of the headquarters sponsors already line up, putting money down with the betting managers for tributes they hope to win. Half of the room is walled by screens ready to display the games. There are stations for placing bets as well as ordering items to send to specific tributes. At least a dozen people man each post ready to take money by the hand fulls. Three booths to one side hold attendants ready to answer phones from anyone else in the Capitol or the districts prepared to buy tribute gifts or place bets. The room also contains other forms of entertainment, a corner with a square dance floor and some bouncy music to fill any lulls in killing. There is also an assortment of food; the theme for the day seems to be exotic fruits and cooked birds.

“Are you excited?” Cinna turns to see one of Mara’s prep girls standing beside him.

“Excuse me?”

“I always love the start, that sixty seconds when they stand there and everything is silent.” She grins. “Amazing!”

Cinna only nods. “We’ll see.”

Then the announcer blares, “Happy Hunger Games!”

The screens burst to life to show a lush jungle scene, tall twisting trees and thick vines everywhere. The tributes begin to appear on their circles from the ground. 

[Cora standing still with no smile on her face, running toward the backpack...]

Cinna breathes in slowly and shakes his head, focuses on the screens and finds Mara. The usual backpacks litter the ground along with knives, axes, long sheers, and a couple of cross bows. 

“I can’t wait,” the little purple haired girl squeaks.

Then the count down reaches 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 and the tributes spring to life. Mara races off her circle straight for a backpack a few feet away. She skids to her knees on the slippery vine covered ground and grabs the backpack. Suddenly, a knife lands right beside her knee. Mara gasps and springs up again, throwing the backpack over her shoulders. She turns in place and makes for the jungle. Another knife whizzes by her and catches her arm. Mara groans in pain but does not stop running, obvious adrenaline fueling her. She hits the edge of the jungle then tumbles in and down. 

The main screen stays on the blood spurts at the Cornucopia but one of the smaller screens follows Mara in the jungle as she suddenly begins to fall. The ground tilts sharply where she’d hit the tree line, completely masked before by all the vines. Mara grunts and rolls over and over down the hill, hitting branches and vines as she goes until her hand catches one vine, stopping her frenzied fall.

“Okay, okay,” she gasps hard and pulls her self up. The ground behind her seems to fall for several more yards before leveling out again. “Oh, crap...”

Mara takes a few slow breathes. She looks up and grabs for another vine. She pulls down on it. Nothing happens. She pulls a few more times, yanking harder and harder until it finally breaks and a long coil falls down. Mara wraps one end around the tree beside her, tying a double knot of a kind Cinna does not recognize. Then she ties the other end around her waist.

“Oh good, Mara,” Cinna whispers.

Then Mara carefully holds onto the end of the vine closest to the tree and walks herself down the rest of the steep hill. About four feet above the flat surface her vine reaches its limit. Mara struggles to undo the now tight knot but finally she breaks a sharp piece of bark from a tree, saws her way through the vine and drops the rest of the way to the level ground.

“Clever.” Cinna turns to see Septimus standing beside him now. “She has a bit more smarts than I’d thought.”

Cinna grins back. “So maybe she has a chance?”

“Maybe she won’t die today,” Septimus replies quietly.

Light begins to fall for the tributes in the arena, the cornucopia blood bath over and most of the remaining tributes trudging through the jungle. The phones ring constantly, money still moving, while one screen displays a list of deaths and kills, predictions as to next to die and likely to win.

“Ten dead at the cornucopia!” One of the betting attendants shouts. “Collect your winnings for ten dead at the cornucopia!”

A few people cheer in excitement while a lot more groan with disappointment. 

“They bet on that?” Cinna hisses to Septimus.

“Oh, this is only the beginning, Cinna.”

Cinna huffs. “Are you betting?”

“As a stylist, I am not allowed.”

“That’s probably a good thing.”

Septimus raises his eyebrows at Cinna. Cinna shrugs. “I’m sure you’d bet wrong.”

“Like on a career?”

“Like on whoever has the best hair.”

Septimus chuckles then points toward the tables along the wall. “Dinner? There won’t be much going on for a while and you should eat. I don’t want you to survive only on worry here.”

Cinna shakes his head. “Don’t patronize me.”

“You know I’m not. I am always full of concern for you.”

“Ever the dutiful employer.”

“Aren’t you glad I actually started paying you?”

Cinna laughs. “In fact I am.”

The two turn and head over to the tables of food. Cinna understands the mango and fried parrot trend now of the meal. He knows he shouldn’t but Cinna finds it funny. Cinna focuses on something which looks close to chicken and some bread. He’s never quite been able to eat so lavishly all the time as everyone else in the Capitol does. Cinna checks the screens, nothing showing Mara at the moment which means where ever in the jungle she is, she is safe.

“Eat, Cinna, while you still have the will,” Septimus coaxes.

“I’m going to break your favorite sewing machine if you don’t stop mother henning me.”

Septimus huffs. “Yes, sir.”

Ten minutes later Cinna puts his empty plate aside and turns around to see a set of beautiful blue-green eyes only inches away.

“Fancy a dance?”

“I... well, I...”

“All right then,” the man steps back and takes Cinna’s hand.

It is only as his fingers curl around Cinna’s that he realizes the eyes belong to Finnick Odair, victor of the 65th Hunger Games. Cinna isn’t usually one that swoons at the dashing smile or the swoop of long hair, but Finnick? Well, Finnick makes it hard for anyone not to fall at his feet.

They walk out onto the dance floor, a sort of salsa type song playing, and Finnick leads the way.

“So?” Finnick asks as he wraps his arms around Cinna, “What’s your name?”

“Cinna.”

“Cinna?”

“Cinna Bell,” Cinna clarifies, “I work for Septimus, one of the stylists for five.”

Finnick gives Cinna an odd look for a moment then his smile flashes back into place. “Got yourself an invitation to the fun?”

Cinna tilts his head. “Well... I was helping with his tribute a bit as well.”

“Ooo,” Finnick shakes his head. “Lucky boy! Makes you a bit like the prep teams?”

Cinna laughs as Finnick turns them to the left to the music, “I suppose.”

“I’ve never seen you before, Cinna.”

“Septimus is new.”

“Hmm, yes, but I mean ever.”

Cinna frowns. “Would you expect to?”

Finnack makes a charming ‘oh I don’t know’ sort of face. “Perhaps not, but these types of people are usually buzzing around here all the time even when they aren’t on the ‘staff’ so you get to recognize people.”

“Well, like I said, new.”

“Very new and very different.”

Cinna blinks with confusion and Finnick suddenly dips Cinna down to a crest in the music then pulls him back up to dance even closer. 

“What do you mean?” Cinna manages, suspicion growing at the point of this dance. Finnick is known as the gorgeous flirt of all the tributes, the one who already has a list of Capitol lovers, but Cinna thinks this is something else. “What do you mean different?”

“Well, look at you,” Finnick explains, his hand sliding from Cinna’s side to flat against his lower back. “You dress in a simple black suit, just a dark purple shirt, normal hair and only the gold eye liner to jazz it up. Compared to everyone else here you are positively drab.”

Cinna watches Finnick as he moves them back and forth over the dance floor. He realizes what this is; it’s a test, an analysis. Cinna does not quite fit in despite his years of acclimation and, as someone from a district, Finnick can see.

“I let my work have all the ‘jazz,’ as you put it,” Cinna offers in explanation. “No need to overshadow my own creations.”

Finnick purses his lips but his eyes still search Cinna’s face. “Well, then.”

“Does that surprise you so much, Finnick? There is quite a variety of people here in the Capitol.”

“Oh, yes, there certainly is.”

The salsa song ends and a small group of people clap. Cinna thinks for a moment that they are applauding the music when he notices Finnick make an elaborate bow to their right. He sees about half a dozen people at the edge of the dance floor watching them, all eyes on Finnick. He winks for a finish then turns back to Cinna.

“You interest me Cinna Bell.”

“I do?”

Finnick nods. “I haven’t put my finger on it yet.”

Cinna clears his throat and glances away looking for Septimus. Finnick is as stunning a man as Cinna could ever hope to take interest in him but this is not _that_ kind of interest. This feels like Finnick is trying to pry open Cinna’s head and burrow inside.

“I imagine you need to get back to your tribute,” Cinna says, wanting Finnick to take the out and free Cinna from scrutiny.

“Actually, Lawrence is already dead.” Cinna blinks rapidly. “Somehow Megan Till from eleven got an opening when Laurie was stabbing the little one from six. A surprise but too late now.”

Cinna can’t figure out if Finnick is really that cavalier about his tribute’s life or if the whole thing is just an act to set Cinna off balance.

“Thank you for the dance,” Cinna says then turns and escapes.

Finnick Odair makes Cinna nervous.

The night sees another death in the arena, the boy from twelve caught by Tonia from four, but nothing new for Mara. The main show finds her for a short while making herself a camp site among the vines but interest changes to follow the career pack picking the cornucopia clean and prowling the jungle. Cinna spots Alexa pacing in front of her private screen. (Each of the mentors get small screens which track just their tribute). Cinna wonders if Alexa knew Mara personally before the Games. Cinna watches a few feet behind Alexa as Mara wipes sweat from her brow and smacks mosquitoes.

“I hope those don’t turn out to be poisonous or something,” Alexa mutters.

“Cinna,” Septimus touches his shoulder, “I think perhaps that is enough for the evening.”

Cinna looks down at his watch to see the time past midnight. He groans, “Wow...”

“We will be back early tomorrow so it would be good to sleep.”

“Always the smart one, Septimus.”

The next day rain starts to pour in the arena jungle. Though the cameras stay clear, the visibility for the tributes obviously drops by half. One of the tributes from three walks straight into a wall of vines so thick he gets so tangled he strangles himself to death. The rain also brings out a new foe for the tributes, snakes and lizards three times their normal size. 

“I hate lizards,” Mara pants as she struggles up a tree to escape three lizards chasing her.

Cinna watches her on a side screen, Septimus beside him, “I wish I could send her an umbrella.”

Septimus snorts. “So she could get it caught in the vines and fall back to the lizards?”

“How about an umbrella with a sword in it?”

“Elegant, we’ll have to sell them at the Boutique.”

Suddenly Mara gasps and she flashes onto the main screen. The tree is so slick with the rain and the vines she slides back down, arms knocking branches. She grabs one, nails digging into the wood, and her feet dangle just above the lizards.

Money starts to fly out of pockets and a dozen people dash over to the betting stands.

“Fifty for the lizards to kill her!” One man snaps so animatedly the whole room can hear.

Cinna clenches his fists as one lizard jumps up and snaps at her, catching her ankle. She screams and kicks back at him, nailing the creature in the face and blood spurting from both their wounds. Mara gasps, hands slipping, and kicks again so the lizard falls to the ground. The other two lizards ignore Mara and suddenly start to devour the wounded lizard. Mara pulls herself up and steps with her good foot onto a higher branch. She pulls another vine and wraps it around her good ankle using the friction to pull herself up further.

“Just a little higher.” Mara’s fingers slip, almost falling again but she manages to sit herself on a higher branch and leans back against the truck, hissing with pain.

Cinna waits for a new horror but the lizards keep destroying their comrade and Mara stays solid on her branch. Safe again.

Cinna glances over to Alexa and sees her talking to a pair of sponsors, big smile on her face. Perhaps she is already planning ahead to cajole a sponsor into sending Mara medicine should the bite become infected. Cinna starts imagining all sorts of horrible things to happen. Perhaps the lizard’s bites are poisonous and she’ll fall out of the tree dead any minute? Maybe the infected wound starts to rot and she’ll have to cut off her foot? Maybe the rain will never stop and she’ll drown or slip again and break her neck or the vines will fight back?

“Stop thinking so hard.”

Cinna ignores Septimus and stares at the screen where Mara pulls off her shoe to inspect her ankle.

“Really, Cinna, I doubt she’ll die from that.”

“Shut up, Septimus.”

Cinna did not expect to become so attached to Mara.

The highlight of day two luckily is not Mara’s brush with the mutant lizards but the fight between Kipper of district six and Clark of district nine. Though Clark only received a four training score, when Kipper jumps down from a tree obviously thinking she would get a quick kill Clark reacts instantly grabbing her by the wrist and slamming her onto the ground. The two grapple back and forth, pinning each other and landing punches, as the rain makes sure they are coated in mud. Clark pulls a knife and stabs her in the shoulder. However, Kipper throws him off and gets the knife from him, slashing him across the face. After a few more trades of the knife and some violent slamming into trees as they fight, Clark gets a vine around her and pulls her tight against a tree. Kipper struggles but Clark only pulls the vine tighter each time she moves.

“Fine. Come on then!” Kipper shouts.

Clark stabs her in the throat and leaves her tied to the tree, the rain washing her clean. The betting tables are awash with unhappy losers and one very pleased woman who happened to bet against the odds.

Day three Cinna meets Cecelia from district eight.

The morning begins slowly with no new deaths. The rain keeps coming and crocodiles appear in the jungle sending tributes climbing up into trees. Mara hikes through the jungle, gathering strong vines and putting them in her backpack as she searches for food. 

As the day goes on, Cinna finds himself recognizing someone new among the mentors each in front of their own screen. Cinna isn’t sure at first why he unconsciously focused on her then he realizes it is Cecelia, one of the victors from eight. Cinna feels a pang of old homesickness and walks over to her.

“Hi,” Cinna holds out his hand, “Cinna Bell, would you… that is…” Cinna shakes his head, “is your tribute doing well?”

Cecelia smiles softly with a nod. “He still seems to be going well. Good to meet you Cinna. Which district are you with?”

Cinna points over at Alexa and Septimus. “Five, just this year.”

“Ah.” She nods again. “Welcome to the Games.”

Cinna laughs. “Do you… do you enjoy coming to the Capitol? A big change from district eight I’d imagine?”

“Oh my yes, quite different.” Cecelia glances at the screen then back to Cinna. “I’m here to help, of course, my job as a mentor.”

“You don’t come every year though, yes? There are other victors?”

“A few.” Cecelia points to a man near the food tables. “Vance goes most years but I have children so I trade off.”

Cinna smiles. “Oh, you do?”

“Three.”

Cinna blinks again and feels his face fall slightly because that’s his family now too. Just three. 

“How is it back in eight?” Cinna asks. “Are things… good?”

Cecelia gives him an odd look. “Uh, well, yes…”

“Oh, good, yes, very good.”

“Why do you ask?”

Cinna shrugs. “Oh, no reason really. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time when you have a tribute to keep track of. Good luck.”

Cinna turns and flees, kicking himself in his head. What was he thinking? He just looked odd and suspicious. Of course no one from the Capitol would genuinely ask about life in the districts, ‘how things were.’ Cinna was stupid. He needs to remember that despite the time only one person here knows of his past and it wouldn’t be so smart to go exposing himself now.

Cinna makes his way back to Septimus, half hiding behind him with shame. “Septimus, I think sometimes you need to keep a better eye on me.”

Septimus sips his drink and watches the screen. “You can talk to Cecelia Halise all you please Cinna. I see no officials coming to lock you up so stop worrying so.”

Cinna should have known Septimus has eyes in the back of his head. “That’s a comfort.”

“And dear Mara is still hiking strong.”

“Good to hear.” That, in fact, actually is a comfort.

Mara dies the next day.

Mara makes her way out of the jungle and into the swamp. Cinna really shouldn’t be surprised by such odd environment connections.

“Do they have a desert in there too?” Cinna grumbles.

“Well, a sponsor did just send Felicia of one a rain jacket so I doubt it.” Septimus grins. “Maybe the swamp used to be the desert.”

Cinna glares. “Hilarious.”

“The bets on her to win are getting quite high.”

“Sorry, Septimus,” Cinna says watching Mara trudge through the knee high muck, “You’re stuck with district five now.”

The activity around the betting tables starts to rise, Septimus is correct about that. With twelve tributes dead, the competition is halved and the return on bets doubles. Felicia is at the head with three deaths to her personal credit at the moment on the board; Blake Hardin of one and Lacey Marks of two tie after her with two a piece. The mentors and their escorts weave through the crowd encouraging sponsors to favor their tribute. Bliss points out Mara’s clever uses of the vines while Alexa emphasizes how quickly Mara continues to move despite her ankle. Cinna watches the two of them work their magic. He hopes they convince someone to put their money behind her. Mara has lasted for three days now.

“Do you think they’ll be able to -”

“Oh dear.”

Cinna turns to Septimus. “What?”

Septimus points with his one hand holding a wine glass up to the main screen now featuring Mara. She walks through the swamp, stick in her hand to test the depth before each step she takes. However, behind her they see someone stalking her hidden by the rain.

“Oh no, Mara turn around,” Cinna whispers.

It’s a boy; Cinna can’t really tell who. He follows about ten feet behind her, any noise of his feet in the swamp masked by the rain. Alexa perks up and runs over to the main screen, Bliss right behind her.

“Shit,” Cinna puts a hand against his mouth, “turn around Mara!”

Mara keeps walking then stops beside a tree. Cinna remembers her food supplies are low and before she even takes off her backpack he knows she plans to climb the tree and have a look. This will give the boy following her an opening.

“Don’t, Mara, just look behind you for one minute.”

Septimus puts a hand on Cinna’s shoulder. “It’s all right.”

“Shut up.” Cinna wishes he could shout so she could hear, wishes he could warn her.

Mara takes off her backpack and hangs it by one of the straps on a low branch. She shakes her head, wiping some hair off of her face slick with rain.

“It’s Adam,” Septimus says, “from district eight.”

Mara smiles for one moment as she gazes up the tree, looking for a hand hold. Then Adam pulls a knife from his boot and throws it through the air. It flies perfectly and slams into Mara’s back. She smacks into the tree in front of her, voice choked off before she even screams. Her fingers clutch at the bark weakly, eyes staring ahead. Then she slips down the tree and crumples into the water, sinking below the surface as if she were never there.

Cinna closes his eyes and breathes slowly in and out. He hears a few people cheer and Bliss’ voice saying something consoling to Alexa.

“Tch, such a shame, Septimus.” It’s Clava. “At least we still have one tribute from our district in the game.”

“Keep an eye on him then, Clava,” Septimus says, “Adam there might come for Archer too.”

“Well, you won’t be designing any Victory Tour outfits, Mr. Moran.” Cinna opens his eyes to see Clava smiling smugly.

Cinna frowns deeply and crosses his arms. “And you won’t be a stylist much longer with the way you design, Clava, so save your boasting.”

Septimus’ eyebrows shoot up in surprise and Clava’s mouth drops open. Cinna smiles once at Septimus then turns and stalks away. If only Cinna did not care so much.

‘Goodbye, Mara,’ he thinks.

It does not really matter how the games turn out now.


	4. Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If Cinna cannot go back then he must move forward._

After the last tribute falls and Brandon of district seven is declared victor, all the people who worked on the games have a party. A few days will be spent returning the victor to top health and beauty so all the victors, mentors, stylists, sponsors, and Gamemakers spend the time indulging and watching the raw replays before the finished production at the after interview.

“Happy hunger games,” Claudius Templesmith cries and pops the first bottle of champagne.

Everyone cheers and holds up their empty glasses. Septimus takes Cinna’s and goes to fill them up. After relinquishing his glass, Cinna decides to mingle instead of waiting. He doesn’t much feel like drinking with party time joy. He thinks about Mara, four days and a knife in her back. To be honest, Cinna didn’t believe she would really win but he certainly had hoped she could. Cinna is as least glad she was spared the violence of the Cornucopia. He hopes the things he said helped her to feel not so alone. 

Cinna makes rounds through the room, lazy circles simply watching the crowd. The main sponsors of the games all sit at a long table shouting at each other either with pride or righteous reasoning.

“She had a poison dagger and two axes! You’d have bet on her too!”

A woman shrieks with laughter. “Oh, but I didn’t, did I? And you send bread? How boring!”

“We know who wields axes best any way, Flavius,” a man barks, “and it certainly isn’t district nine!”

“Well,” A blue haired woman slaps the table, “I gave my girl that medicine, you saw! District eleven I tell you! Final three!”

“All that matters is the victor!” A red faced woman throws her strawberry at the blue harried one. “And you lost!”

“Stella, you always pick the winners,” a man gripes. “Give one of us a tip sometime.”

Cinna keeps weaving through the guests so the sponsors’ squabble becomes more of a background rumble. A group of stylists cluster near a set of cameras replaying the interviews. Cinna knows they are critiquing each other’s work. He scans the crowd and finds Septimus talking to a couple of victors. Cinna wonders absently where Cecelia is.

Then Cinna walks past an alcove and sees a man slumped over in his chair, draped across the table in front of him. Two glasses lie dripping beside his head. Cinna steps closer to make sure the man still breathes then realizes it is victor Haymitch Abernathy of district twelve. Cinna slips into the alcove and crouches low.

“Haymitch?” He gently shakes Haymitch’s shoulder. “Haymitch.”

Haymitch jerks once and mumbles some nonsense syllables.

“Come on, Haymitch, bit early to pass out.” Cinna shakes him harder.

Haymitch suddenly spasms, jolts up, and grabs Cinna’s lapel, yanking him against the table. Cinna gasps in surprise, Haymitch’s face only inches from his own. Haymitch breathes heavily, breath reeking of a combination of too many alcohols. He blinks slowly then releases Cinna’s coat. He leans back in his chair and stares. 

Haymitch cocks his head with a look of confusion. “Who are you?”

“Cinna.”

“Cinna,” Haymitch repeats, “Cinna, Cinna, Cinna.”

“Are you all right?” Cinna asks.

Haymitch laughs. “Oh? Am I all right? I’m alive!” He points over Cinna’s shoulder. “Better than them.”

Cinna turns and follows the line of Haymitch’s finger to the largest set of screens on the center wall. Cinna turns back but has no reply.

Haymitch sniffs loudly and pulls at his waistcoat. “I thought this year – no, no never.” Haymitch waves a hand in the air. “Smack! Bam! And another year done!”

Cinna touches Haymitch’s arm. “Haymitch, I could get you –”

“What? Get me a new set to dress up?” Haymitch knocks Cinna’s hand away then laughs again. “Naw, I had plenty of fun this year. Loads! Did you see the little one smashed at the…” he trails off as he sits up and grabs for the empty glasses on his table.

Cinna wishes for one moment he could really be one of the ridiculous, naive Capitol citizens who would only take Haymitch’s words as drunk, meaningless ravings. Instead Cinna sees the last victor of a district in over twenty years.

“I have no drink,” Haymitch says abruptly clear as if sober. He looks right at Cinna. “I have no drink.”

“Those would be on the floor now.”

Haymitch laughs once then tries to stand up, knocking a glass over when he falls back into his seat. Cinna jumps up and reaches out, ready to help.

“Got it,” Haymitch waves his hands emphatically. “I… I’ve got it.”

“Oh, great.” Cinna turns suddenly at the voice behind him.

A man, probably Haymitch’s age, with part of one arm missing, towers over Cinna. He holds a bottle in his only hand and Cinna recognizes him as a victor but the name escapes him.

“Beating me to the punch, Haymitch?” He says.

“Catch up, Chaff,” Haymitch replies, “and give me that bottle.”

“Why should I give you the bottle if you want me to catch up?”

Haymitch grins. “I’ll arm wrestle you for it.”

Chaff snorts and finally looks at Cinna. “Didn’t throw up on you, did he?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you’ve been spared so far.” He claps Cinna’s shoulder and moves around him to sit beside Haymitch.

Cinna smiles unsurely. “I was just checking he was alive.”

“Unfortunately!” Haymitch cries as he grabs the bottle from Chaff.

Chaff steals it right back and takes a swig. “Oh, you’ll never die, Haymitch. Who would I drink with if you did?”

“Enobaria?”

They both burst into laughter, slapping each other on the leg and on the chest. Cinna smiles sadly and shakes his head. Chaff suddenly focuses on Cinna.

“Wait, who are you?”

“Cinder!” Haymitch fills in.

“Try again,” Cinna says, smiling.

“Simba?”

Chaff and Haymitch fall into a new fit of drunken laughter. Cinna doesn’t even feel insulted.

Instead he smiles and walks backward. “Enjoy the party.”

Cinna turns out of the alcove leaving the pair to their bottle and their sorrows.

“Cinna!” Cinna hears Haymitch shout after him. “Got it! Cinna, Cinna, Cinna! Third time’s the charm.”

Cinna makes a note in his head to check on them later.

Walking through the crowd, many now dancing with less inhibition, Cinna picks up a glass of wine and searches for Septimus. He passes by the new victor’s team, all of them talking animatedly and already pointing at papers all over their table. Obviously, they wish to start planning the coming victor interview or maybe even the victor tour of Panem right away.

“Cinna,” Septimus appears beside Cinna and loops his arm around Cinna’s, “You’ve left me to the dogs.”

“You love it.”

“Of course, but occasionally I need a talking point to steer conversation and I wanted to use you.”

“I have to be present for that?”

“I told you I would pay you back, Cinna.” Septimus let’s go of Cinna’s arm. “That means talking all about you.”

“And showing me off?”

“Exactly!”

“Like a tribute.”

Septimus stops walking and gazes at Cinna. “Ah, I see the games have sent your mood down again.”

Cinna crosses his arms. “I’m fine.” Septimus gives him a skeptical look. “I just don’t think now’s the time.”

“Of course now is the time.” Septimus sweeps his hand indicating the crowd.

“Well,” Cinna taps a button on Septimus’ vest, “You talk all about me then and I’ll be mysterious!”

“Hmm.” Septimus takes Cinna’s wine from his hand. “I suppose I can work with that.”

“I have faith in you.”

The two part, and Cinna searches for a quiet corner. He’s not exactly depressed but he sees no reason to celebrate, Mara dead along with the others. He understands it all now, the Capitol fervor with the games, he just does not share the zeal. At the moment Cinna glides through the chaos so everything washes over him, just sound and color – don’t listen to the words.

“Cinna.” Someone touches his arm.

Cinna turns. “Finnick.”

Finnick smiles, perfect gold brown hair, teeth perfect, perfect eyes like clear water and wearing a tight navy blue suit, sea green shirt open at the neck. He looks just as attractive as usual.

“Follow me.” Finnick grins mischievously.

Cinna blinks rapidly but follows despite all the ways he imagines this could end badly especially as Cinna isn’t a hundred percent sure what Finnick intends. Finnick weaves through people smiling and blowing the occasional kiss. Everyone watches him pass, a few spotting Cinna following. Cinna wonders how elaborate a story the gossips will create. They round a corner into an abruptly empty hall. Finnick walks a bit further in and stops, back against the wall. Cinna stands in front of him.

“So?”

“I know who you are,” Finnick replies, face suddenly different. All the easy flirtation disappeared and Finnick looks like a normal person.

“Cinna Bell?” Cinna fills in.

“Of district eight,” Finnick finishes.

Cinna tenses, frozen for a moment only staring back at Finnick. Then he slowly slides his hands into his pockets. Oddly Cinna feels relief instead of fear. Maybe he’ll be sent back to district eight, maybe he’ll be publicly embarrassed, ostracized, maybe they’ll turn him into an Avox. (Though somehow he feels exposure is probably not Finnick’s plan). He watches Finnick and waits, why run?

“It was my first year as a mentor,” Finnick explains, “And there was a small tribute from district eight, Cora Bell, who wore a dress made by her brother to her interview; her brother, Cinna Bell.”

“I’m surprised you remember her.” Cinna glances at the floor. “She didn’t last long.”

“That first year after tends to stick.” Cinna looks back up at Finnick. “And I remember her smile. She kept it on like armor.”

“And you remembered my name.”

“Well, I…” Finnick falters for a moment. He clears his throat and stands up straight. He reaches inside his coat and pulls out a small book. “I keep track.”

Cinna reaches for it then stops, glancing up for permission. Finnick hands the book to him. Cinna opens to the first page.

_66th Hunger Games  
1\. Crystal Reever – brown hair, beautiful laugh. Liked how the night sky at the Capitol seemed brighter.  
1\. Vincent Ward – dark brown eyes, very catching. Confident but had an odd mercy._

Cinna jerks his head up. “What is this?”

“After I won and the tour and then things started to…” Finnick pauses and pulls at one of his cuffs, “to change. I decided to keep track of every tribute starting with the game after mine.”

Cinna shakes his head. “But why? They were all your own tribute’s competition.”

“Because no one deserves to be turned into a number then forgotten.”

Cinna stares at Finnick then looks back at the notebook.

_8\. Samuel Lawson – shy with freckles, never looked at the camera.  
8\. Cora Bell – always smiled, a brother Cinna who can design, didn’t give up at heart._

“And sometimes,” Finnick continues, “because I envy the ones that died.”

Cinna closes the book and hands it back. “Who are you Finnick Odair?”

“Who are you, Cinna Bell?” Finnick counters. “And why are you here? Your sister was a tribute, not you. Yet here you are.”

“I’m a designer; I work for Septimus Moran, as I told you.”

Finnick raises his eyebrows. “And that’s the whole story?”

“What more would you like?”

“Well, you didn’t magically appear.”

Cinna folds his hands together. “After the 66th Hunger Games, Septimus came to my house and brought me here because of my talent for design.”

Finnick stares. “You say it so calmly.”

“Do you want me to be angry?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you?”

Something flashes across Finnick’s face for a moment. His teeth clench and one hand balls into a fist briefly before relaxing. 

He shakes his head. “Not for myself.”

“So then why are you telling me all this? Why are you asking?”

Finnick sighs. “I suppose I thought you should know that someone else knows. And,” he steps into Cinna’s personal space, “Why do you stay?”

“Well, my designs that I make here –”

“That can’t be all it,” Finnick interrupts.

Cinna swallows. “I’m not sure I can leave if I’d want to.”

Finnick frowns. “Why? You’re not a victor told where to go.”

“This is the Capitol.”

Finnick only stares at him.

“Septimus had a letter from the President’s council.”

Finnick looks unconvinced. “I see.”

Cinna steps back so more space lies between them. “See what?”

“Nothing, it’s just unusual.”

“Yes, but?”

Finnick turns back toward the party. “I just think maybe you should find out how much of what Septimus told you is true. You should have a chance to go home.”

“And why do you care?” Cinna snaps suddenly. “Is this redemption for the arena?”

Finnick glances back at Cinna. “Yes.” He smiles, flirtatious again. “And to give the gossips something to talk about.”

Finnick turns and walks back toward the noise and celebration.

“Finnick,” Cinna calls and Finnick stops. “Thank you for remembering my sister.”

“You’re welcome.”

When Septimus and Cinna return to the apartment, Cinna pours Septimus a drink then sits down in the chair directly opposite him.

“Oh dear,” Septimus says, “you have that serious conversation face on.”

“I do.”

Septimus takes a sip of his drink. “Well, by all means, proceed.”

“It’s about when we first met, about district eight.”

Septimus only stares back, waiting.

“When you first came for me after the hunger games with Cora you had an envelope, a ‘special dispensation’ or something from Snow’s council.”

Septimus rolls his glass between his hands. “Yes.”

“But that wasn’t real, was it?”

“No.”

“You came to get me, all on your own, just to benefit you.”

“Yes.”

“Did you bribe the Peacekeepers?”

Septimus snorts softly. “You think that’s a hard thing?”

“So… you kidnapped me?”

Septimus sighs. “Cinna…”

“I’m not angry, not anymore.” Cinna leans forward, forearms on his thighs. “I just want to know.”

“I suppose you’re right but if it wasn’t me it would have been someone else.” Septimus looks up at Cinna. “I just got there first.”

They sit for a minute only staring at each other.

“The silly back story about a mountain family?” Cinna asks, breaking the stand off.

Septimus smiles. “People will believe a lot of ridiculous things here but if you’d been found out as a district citizen.” Septimus pauses and glances to the side before looking back. “Well, that would have been rather bad for both of us.”

“It still could.”

“Not now, it’s been too long. Plus,” Septimus takes a drink, “I’ve altered your records, including the video from your sister’s interview.”

Cinna raises his eyebrows. “Cost a lot?”

“Not as much as you’d think.”

Cinna sits back again and shrugs. “Didn’t you ever worry that some one would recognize me or my name at least after Cora?”

Septimus laughs once. “That was never a problem, Cinna. The people here in the Capitol, as you should know by now, only remember the victors of the Hunger Games. The rest is just a blur of parties and carnage, never names.” Septimus clears his throat and speaks softly, “Especially those who die so quickly.”

Cinna wishes he didn’t understand but he does, completely.

“Septimus,” Cinna says after a pause, “I’m going to district eight.”

Septimus, for once, looks completely surprised. “What?”

“Are you going to stop me?”

“I…” Septimus’ hands clench on his glass. “No. No, I’m not going to stop you. I just don’t see why you –“

“Yes, you do.”

Septimus makes a noise close to a growl. “…of course.”

“My family.”

“Yes, your family.”

“Septimus,” Cinna stands up, voice calm. “I’m not yours; I never was.”

“Did I say that?” Septimus almost snaps.

“And you are not my father,” Cinna continues firmly.

Septimus’ mouth falls open slightly then clamps shut.

“My mother and father who haven’t seen their son in five years deserve to now.” Cinna pauses again and Septimus stares at the carpet. “So, I’m getting on a train and going.”

Septimus sits up straight, puts his glass down on the table beside him and looks at Cinna. “When?”

“Tomorrow. Do I have anything to worry about?”

“As a Capitol citizen you can travel to the districts, though it is not common. You should think of a good excuse.” Septimus drums his fingers. “Research perhaps, for future games?”

Cinna nods. “Thank you.”

He turns and walks toward the stairs, packing to do not to mention he needs to think of what he’s going to say to his parents.

“Are you…” Cinna stops and looks back at Septimus. “Are you coming back?”

Cinna breathes in once then begins to climb the stairs. “I don’t know.”

In the morning Septimus waits for Cinna at the bottom of the stairs. He smiles and holds out a small card.

“Your Capitol ID.”

“You have IDs?”

Septimus shrugs and smiles a little. “They’re issued for people who need to travel outside the Capitol. Wouldn’t want to be mistaken for a district citizen, would they?”

Cinna chuckles. “I see.”

They stare at each other for a moment then Cinna puts the ID in his pocket and adjusts the strap of his bag.

“Well, I’ll be off.”

“Be prepared,” Septimus says abruptly, face with a hint of worry behind his smile. “Be prepared for things to be different.”

Cinna only nods in reply and heads out the door.

The train ride to district eight feels longer this time around. Perhaps the fear of the unknown quickened the journey when he was younger or perhaps he simply is older now and feels time as it really is? Whatever the reason, Cinna has plenty of time to mull over time past, ponder what to expect. He knows he can’t expect things to be the same. They’re all going to be five years older after all and so is he. He wonders if the house still looks the same or if they all have the same jobs. He considers, should he blame Septimus for the time? Should he blame himself, blame his ignorance? Everything could be blamed on the Capitol some way or another. Or perhaps he simply shouldn’t bother with excuses, just wait and see what he finds. 

Above all joy fills his heart at the prospect of seeing his family again.

When the train pulls into the station less than half a dozen people get out. Cinna recognizes two of them from years ago as factory foremen who travel to the south for raw product while another he knows used to take the train every two weeks with finished supplies of fabric to the Capitol. Cinna hadn’t sent any sort of word that he was coming, though who knows if it would have made it to his family. Messages between districts have never really happened for common folk and he had never entertained the possibility of writing to his family before. Now that he thinks about it Cinna feels so idiotic that he never tried, assuming too much.

Cinna walks the streets from the station down toward the factory housing district, houses all the same as he remembered, colors all the same. Oddly, the air does not feel as cold as his memories. People glance at him as he passes by, some with surprise or perhaps faint recognition. Cinna’s nerves tense further with each street until he stands in front of a familiar door.

“Okay…” Cinna knocks.

He hears a clatter and someone say, ‘the door,’ and then footsteps. Cinna’s heart jumps to a new speed and he clenches a fist around his bag. Then the door opens and Clasta stands between him and every memory of sixteen years of life.

“Ye –”

She stops before even finishing the word, smile froze on her face. Her hand clenches on the door frame like a vice and she only blinks. 

For some reason Cinna can’t smile. “Hi.”

“Cinna.” Her voice sounds different, older.

“Clasta, who is…?” A man steps into view behind her. It takes Cinna a moment then - Bale Westerby, did leather work.

“Hi,” Cinna repeats, “I’m…” suddenly Cinna wishes he actually had rehearsed some sort of speech or thought up something to say instead of just believing it would come to him in the moment. “Can I come in?”

Clasta’s face relaxes slightly and she steps back. “Yes, of course, yes.”

She steps back, Bale following, and Cinna walks into the house. The first thing he notices is the paint. The main room they used to use for any activity which wasn’t bedroom related or cooking is no longer splotchy green and brown as it used to be but white, repainted. Cinna feels a chip flake off the illusion of the past.

“Are we having dinner?” Cinna’s father walks out of the kitchen. “Don’t tell me it was Merrily from next door again?”

He looks at Clasta, eyes coasting right over Cinna at first, then he suddenly snaps back and his mouth falls open. “Cinna!”

“Hi.” Cinna smiles and has a small heart attack. “Hi, dad.”

He strides over to Cinna and stops in from of him. He reaches out a hand then stops in mid air as if he doesn’t believe his hand won’t fall right through Cinna if he touches him. Then he rests his hand on Cinna’s shoulder. He laughs once.

“You’re… you’re here.” He frowns with confusion then smiles again. “You’re here.”

Cinna nods. “Yes, I am. I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

Clasta makes a choked sort of noise from behind him and Cinna hears Bale make soft shushing sounds. Clasta sniffs loudly. Then Cinna drops his bag, reaches out and pulls his father to him, trapping the man in a tight hug.

“Oh my god,” his father gasps. “It’s really you.”

Suddenly, Clasta’s feet stomp over the floor and she hugs Cinna’s back, locking him into a sandwich of warmth and a million lost memories. Cinna clings onto his father and just breathes. The two of them smell just the same. After about a minute Cinna drops his arms and all three let go. Cinna peers around his father into the kitchen.

“So,” Cinna swallows, “where are mom and Cherra?”

Cinna’s father glances over Cinna’s shoulder. Cinna already knows the answer.

“Let’s lay another place and sit down for dinner, all right?” Clasta says from behind him.

“How?” Cinna asks.

Cinna’s father looks back at him, his mouth a thin line. He sighs. “Factory accident, a year ago.”

‘Isn’t it always?’ Cinna thinks.

“One of the furnaces that heats the vats to melt the dyes blew, took out half the building and… well, a lot of people.”

Cinna frowns. “And… both of them were…”

“A lot changed after you were gone, Cinna,” Clasta says, “and it’s been a long time.”

The four of them sit down at the table in the kitchen, stew with biscuits on the side and iced tea. Cinna learns, as expected, Clasta and Bale married two years ago. They live a few streets away and have no children. They tell him about the things he has missed – Cherra had received a promotion, gotten a raise before the accident. She’d been so happy about becoming a foreman. She’d been the first on call with the malfunction of the furnace that day. Their mother had taken a second batch of hours in the dye factory in addition to the cotton factory after they lost Cinna’s income. Cinna’s father transferred over to leather to work with Bale, change of pace and keep family close. Bale and Clasta married in the fall, her wedding dress was pink and the traditional cloth they tied around their hands at the ceremony was a ripping from the skirt Cinna had made her.

Cinna cannot force himself to tell them about the Capitol because suddenly he feels how very, very wrong this entire situation is. His life then compared to his life now and how life here has moved ahead without him.

After dinner Bale makes coffee while the three remaining Bells sit together.

“So, what… I mean…” Clasta stares at her hands on top of the table, twisting the ring around her finger. “It’s been five years and we didn’t… I thought you…” She looks up. “I thought we would never see you again.”

“How did Cherra take it?” Cinna asks, remembering Clasta’s last plea to Septimus to let them get Cherra to say goodbye.

Cinna’s father laughs once and shakes his head. “Worse. She didn’t say anything at all. She went upstairs and it wasn’t until three days later that she suddenly started crying.”

Cinna looks away. They sit silently for a moment then Clasta sits up straight.

“We saw Septimus on the Hunger Games.” Cinna turns to Clasta. “District five?”

“Yes.”

“He looked pleased.”

“He was.”

Clasta tilts her head. “So, is that it? You’re still… what? Working for him?”

Cinna nods. “For these past five years, yes; I’ve been designing for his shop. The Boutique.”

“The Boutique?” Clasta repeats.

“Designing?” His father leans forward over the table. “Actually designing all those things you used to try to scrape together here?”

Cinna nods. “Yes, exactly. In fact all those outfits I doodled away in my notebook? We made them, all of them and more beyond that.” Cinna smiles suddenly feeling some pride because he _has_ done something. “And people in the Capitol have liked what I’ve done, The Boutique has become more popular and Septimus said right from the start I have a natural talent. I think I’ve even changed it a bit, brought an amount of sense to Capitol style in clothing at least. It really makes…”

Suddenly Cinna trails off because he sees his father and Clasta staring at him with confusion and surprise. Cinna clears his throat and the mugs behind them clatter.

“I’ll… um, be right back,” Bale mumbles and leaves the room.

“So, well,” Cinna clears his throat, “Septimus has been doing what he said when he came here.” Cinna has no idea where these words are coming from. “Nurturing my talent.” Everything sounds so flat, so ridiculous sitting here in his family’s kitchen.

“I see,” his father says.

Clasta sighs and nods. “Yes, I see.”

Cinna sees too because it is not pride he feels now toward him, it is disappointment.

“And now,” Clasta says, “the Hunger Games?”

“Yes, well… that is… I try to help.”

“How exactly?” Clasta’s voice changes, harder and less like his sister.

“Clasta, I can’t very well –”

“Say no?” she interrupts. “Because that man certainly hasn’t been keeping you locked up from the look of it.”

Cinna suddenly realizes how fine his clothes are – his shinny shoes, his tailored coat, and the gold eye liner on his eyes. Why didn’t he take that off? What was he thinking?

“It wouldn’t help anything,” Cinna retorts.

“I wouldn’t help to say, ‘No, I won’t work on this horrible thing; I won’t add to the misery by being a part of it?’”

“Clasta!”

“No,” she snaps, “no, those games took your sister! Your little sister died in those games and now you –”

“I was there with that girl!” Cinna shouts back. “I held Mara’s hand and let her cry because she had no hope! I tried to give her some before she was thrown to the dogs and you know that no one else there would have felt anything to give her that! But I did!”

Cinna grips the edge of the table and breathes through his nose to calm his hammering heart. Clasta only stares back at him, her mouth shut tight.

“All right,” their father says, “we knew you would be different, Cinna, if you ever came back. We knew things would change.”

“We never thought you’d come back,” Clasta whispers.

Cinna wants to say ‘I’m no different’ but he knows with certainty that is a lie.

“Why didn’t you come back sooner?” Clasta asks.

Cinna glances down at the table. “I didn’t know I could until now.” 

He doesn’t want to admit that just maybe he began to like the comfort of the Capitol despite the pretention and opulence. He hates himself for changing because he knows now that he cannot change back. There is no place for him anymore in district eight.

Cinna stays to have coffee. Bale returns and tells Cinna about the last spring festival, the streamers in town and how Clasta won one of the gift basket raffles. They tell him about families he knew, babies born. His father repainted the other room after mother died. Clasta’s house is painted pale red inside, two floors and they splurged after the wedding to buy two down pillows. Clasta’s students work harder every year; she’s been trying to throw in things like algebra for the smarter ones. The Peacekeepers have changed some, a few new ones who are less inclined to friendly conversation though there haven’t been many punishments in the square. Wages were cut in the some of the factories and demand seems to have grown, a lot of factory shifts and job changes. It’s odd but everyone seems to make due. They tell him about last winter and the sudden snowman contest which lasted for a week. Clasta and Bale built a pair outside their house with matching blue hats.

“It never stops being cold, does it?” Cinna says.

“Colder than it used to be,” Clasta says with a sadness that means more than just temperature.

“I suppose I should go,” Cinna says noticing the darkness outside. “I know you all have work and I certainly can’t ask you to stay up talking all night with long shifts ahead.”

His father sighs. “Back to the Capitol?”

Cinna looks around at the three of them. They all look normal; cotton clothing, sturdy shoes for working, Clasta’s hair tied up with just a simple band, slight scruff on Bale’s face. Then Cinna wears glossy leather on his feet with linen and silk above with that light touch of gold.

Cinna only smiles and they all know it together, too much has changed.

Cinna hugs Clasta and his father, a nod to Bale. “Belated Congratulations,” Cinna says with a smile.

“Find a way to keep in touch,” Cinna’s father says abruptly when Cinna’s hand touches the door knob.

Cinna nods. “Yes.”

“Goodbye,” Clasta says.

Cinna opens the door then stops and glances back. “I want you to know.” He stands just a bit taller. “I am going to change things somehow. I am.”

Then Cinna closes the door and walks back over the streets blindly until he hits the train station and – after a bribe to the conductor – hops on the night train with finished factory fabrics back to the Capitol. He can’t decide if it feels like running away or going home.

When Cinna opens the door to Septimus’ apartment, Septimus sits on one of the couches of the main lounge. The TV is off – no one else is there – as if all Septimus is doing is waiting which, Cinna knows, is exactly the case.

“So?” Septimus asks quietly.

“It was different,” Cinna answers.

Septimus nods. “I see.” He looks away at the bright green walls. “And you blame me for that?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Septimus turns back. “What do you know then?”

Cinna stares at Septimus. “That I don’t have a home there anymore.”

“Your home is here.”

“I’m not sure I’m happy about that.”

Septimus breathes in slowly and Cinna sees his fingers digging into the upholstery. “But you _are_ happy here.”

“Maybe.” Cinna drops his bag to the floor and leans against the spiral stair case, arms crossed. “Maybe I also wanted to go home someday but it’s too late now.”

“You had to have known that –”

“Known how much I’ve changed? How much I’ve missed?” Cinna sighs with frustration. “Known how they’ve moved on without me and I’ve become…”

“Yes,” Septimus insists. “You had to have known all that before you left.” 

“Well, maybe I didn’t, Septimus!” Cinna shouts finally. “Maybe I didn’t!”

He whips around the stairs, storms all the way up then slams the door of his own room. Inside he leans heavily against the door, breath coming in great gulps. All this time the reality of the Capitol never actually hit home. For a long time Cinna thought he would never see home again but he did not _believe_ it. Somehow being uprooted and thrown into a new environment with no in between made the entire thing unreal. Even when the Boutique and the Capitol and the hunger games all became his life it was just Cinna part two – completely separate and unrelated to life in district eight. 

What had he thought, that he could hop the train to district eight and everything would revert back five years? How could he ever go back? He told himself on the train that things would be different but seeing them, feeling them, talking to his diminished family and the meeting of their changed lives actually cemented into reality. Now Cinna understands the loss. Perhaps it’s even worse than death or ‘never to be seen again.’ He has seen them again and they have seen him and the bridge between them has crumbled away. Cinna is Capitol now and they are still district eight. His own family is a different world.

Cinna’s knees shake and he slowly slides down against the door until he sits on the floor. He knocks his head back against the wood and stares at his red curtains. Curtains. Even his curtains are fine, made of heavy fabric. If Cinna could stand up he would tear them down.

For the next few weeks Cinna works in a fog. He thinks of nothing, simply letting his hands move with the needle over cloth or pencil across the page. He draws simple outfits – loose pants to the ankle, one color dresses with straight sleeves, coats with three buttons and plain collars. He does a lot of menial grunt work which could go through the automatic sewing machine or helps Misty and Lilac dress mannequins. If he keeps his hands busy then his mind won’t dwell on what he’s become.

He hardly speaks to Septimus and Septimus lets him.

“Do you think maybe Lilac and I could come to the Hunger Games this year?” Misty asks one day as the four of them close up shop for the night.

“Oh!” Lilac gasps. “That would be amazing.”

“I am afraid not, dears.”

The both whine at the same high pitch, giving Septimus matching expressions of disappointment. Septimus folds a jacket in half and offers only a stern look in return.

“Cinna gets to go!” Misty whines again as though she is only ten years old.

“Cinna has a skill which is of use to the Games.”

Cinna freezes where he stands locking the door of the shop.

“Ugh! That is definitely not fair,” Misty groans, “there are prep teams, aren’t there?”

“Not for clothing, that’s Septimus,” Lilac corrects.

“Exactly, _Septimus_ , not Cinna. See?”

The girls argue on as Cinna stands still, staring out at the street. Snow covers the pavement right now along with patches of ice from the melted snow of yesterday. He thinks about throwing a snowball right at Cora’s head, perfect shot and the best scream of anger back. He thinks about wearing two pairs of socks to school because the heater in his history class never worked. He thinks about the half of his closet upstairs with fur lining and how easily he can pick up a heated street car if he needs to go out somewhere more than five minutes away.

“Cinna…” Septimus says.

Cinna turns around and walks toward the back stairs to the apartment, handing off the keys to Septimus.

“They have a bit of a point, Septimus,” Cinna comments as he passes.

“Cinna, wait…”

Cinna waves a hand back at them and imagines the expression on Clava’s face, how quickly her emotion turned to rage, how he defended himself.

“Cinna, please!” But Cinna ignores Septimus’ plea and climbs the steps.

Cinna thinks back about how he could have done things differently:

[“You go to the games alone, Septimus; I want to go back to district eight.”]

[“I’m 18 now, Septimus; that makes me an adult and the reaping are past this year. I can’t be ordered around like a tribute. It’s time for me to go home.”]

[When the train hits the station in the Capitol, Cinna runs, weaving through the crowds deeper into the city so Septimus loses sight of him. Cinna hides down alleyways, keeps quiet until night falls and then he creeps back to the train station. The next morning he checks the manifest, hides in the cargo car and rides back to district eight.]

[“I don’t care what that paper says; I am not going to the Capitol.”]

Cinna wonders if his family would even want to see him again now. Do they even see him anymore or do they only remember the sixteen year old boy who left? If he came back would it just be awkward silences filled with surface level comments – how was the winter this year? Is it just as cold in the Capitol? How was the spring festival this year? Did you do anything special for your birthday? Ridiculous questions with banal answers and never talking about how the puzzle pieces no longer connect. Is it easier for them to not see him, to forget?

Cinna and Septimus sit in the first floor lounge, Septimus staring at a book but obviously not reading it and Cinna staring at nothing, food half eaten on a plate beside him.

Then Septimus sighs and puts his book down. “Cinna, if you can’t have both and you can’t have eight then what are you left with?”

Cinna shifts his focus to his plate, pasta with too much sauce and not enough basil. No wonder he only ate half.

“You are left with the Capitol and despite your wallowing in despair you don’t live the idle privileged life most people here do.” Cinna looks up and frowns. “No, you’re not hungry or cold, but you also held on to Mara’s hand and I know you’ll do it again.”

Cinna looks at the floor. “How is that really helpful?”

“I’m sure it was very helpful to her.”

As is often the case, Septimus is right. Brooding does no good and the past cannot be changed. If Cinna cannot go back then he must move forward. 

 

When the 72nd Hunger Games begin to draw near Cinna learns this year is going to be a hail storm. Right away, weeks before the reapings even occur, Clava and Septimus start to fight like alley cats, griping and spitting at each other over every thing.

“Septimus!” Clava bangs her way into the shop nearly knocking Lilac over in her frenzy, large plume of a feather on her pink hat. “I must insist we swap genders!”

Septimus raises an eyebrow at her from the second floor. “I am quite fine as a man, Clava; you must deal with your identity issues yourself.”

Clava huffs loudly and yanks off her black, gem studded gloves. “You know perfectly well what I mean! I want the female tribute this year.”

Septimus passes the clipboard in his hand with the measurements of their recent client over to Cinna and tromps down the staircase. “And why is that, Ms. Peeks? Is it not often the trend to have the opposite gender stylists for tributes to be able to bring a broader view to the designing? You are the veteran after all; I would have thought this would be entrenched in your feelings for the Games.”

Clava frowns. “It is often custom but it is certainly not a rule nor mandatory. I want the girl.”

Septimus stands firm in front of her, hands on hips. “Why exactly? The male form too difficult for you? Would you prefer the ease of being able to bang out a dress with extra ruffles and misplaced gems?”

“Don’t you demean my abilities! You know perfectly well the designs for the female tributes gather more attention and have more opportunity for flair.”

Septimus shrugs. “So the male tribute _is_ too difficult for you. By all means, Clava, take the girl and cop out.”

Clava frowns even more and turns on her heel. “The girl is mine!”

The door slams behind her and Misty laughs shrilly with obvious nerves. Septimus turns around and looks up at Cinna. Cinna just shakes his head.

Septimus writes to the Hunger Games office inquiring about specific rules regarding gender assignments for stylists. Clava and Septimus appear before the Hunger Games board together to determine the legality of tribute assignments, if they can simply switch tributes without consent of the Gamemakers; if such a thing is allowed.

“It was a sight!” Septimus growls as he and Cinna roll up extra fabric. “The woman is determined to force me out before I am even a fixture at the Games.”

“You did say last year she was bitter.”

“Bitter and backstabbing and utterly ridiculous.”

Cinna takes the rolled cloth and slides it into the stand beside the maroon and the rose cotton. “Is it really so bad to trade genders? It would give you a chance to go for a different angle.”

“That is not the point!” Septimus snaps, throwing a pair of scissors into their proper box. “She cannot just _decide_ she gets to have the girl tribute! Not to mention she would make a complete mess of it, I am sure. You remember the suit she made for her tribute last year.”

“The board ruled in her favor, didn’t it?”

Septimus grumbles and shoves the box back on the shelf.

However, Clava finds more to complain about. Once again, Clava accosts the shop, shouting for Septimus though Cinna tries to tell her he is working with a client.

“Clava, you cannot keep coming here and demanding this and that for the Games when they are still weeks away!”

Clava laughs, high and shrill. “Oh, Septimus, if I don’t discuss it with you now there will be no time. You know how busy the week before the arena is. There is hardly time to breathe.”

“You call this discussion?”

“Do not try to divert the conversation.”

“Clava,” Cinna interrupts, “perhaps if you two did this another time when –“

“No!”

“When we don’t have clients who –”

“Enough of you, little one, shut up!” She snaps.

Cinna’s mouth clicks shut in surprise and Misty gasps quietly, rushing away to the back tailoring area. Septimus cocks his head at her and holds up a statuesque finger.

“Clava, I would remind you whose place of business you are currently standing in.” He points to the floor as if she were a child in need of careful instruction. “And I would also _request_ ,” he slides over the word with the most mocking and fake deferential tone, “you to not speak to my employee in such a way.”

“Oh! Employee?” Clava snorts and scoffs together. “Is that all?”

“Yes!” Septimus snaps back, for the first time bothering to quell the ever present gossip. “And another thing –”

“And on he goes!” She throws up her hands. “I came here to talk about a mutually beneficial arrangement for this year’s Hunger Games and you want to bandy about gossip!”

“ _I_ do?” Septimus growls then stops and breathes in slowly. “By all means, Clava, what is your idea then?”

Clava throws a glare at Cinna then cocks out a hip and twirls one hand in the air. “I think it would be best for the both of us to share all of our design plans for our tributes this year so we can keep with a similar theme for the parade and the interview.”

“Share all our design plans?”

“Well, not like last year.”

Septimus crosses his arms. “This is about the lights, isn’t it?”

“Oh, come on,” Cinna rolls his eyes, “You can’t –”

“You know, you did that on purpose to –”

“Get out!” Septimus snaps pointing to the door behind her.

The minute the door closes behind her high green heels, Septimus whirls around and knocks a mannequin clean over sending an arm skidding across the room to bang into the wall.

“Septimus,” Cinna says soothingly, “calm down. The games aren’t far away and when they are done –”

“When they are done I can throw her through a glass window,” Septimus counters.

“Septimus…”

“Maybe I’ll open it first.”

Clava attempts to write to the Gamemakers just as Septimus did on her issue of ‘sharing information’ but the question never makes it to the board. Instead Clava receives a letter back to the extent of: ‘Really?’ Septimus crows with delight and Cinna suspects a pay off, if only to keep the matter out of deliberations.

“Septimus, are you planning on causing a scandal or something?” Cinna questions, chop sticks in hand.

“Clava is the one clamoring for scandal.” Septimus stabs a dumpling repeatedly on his plate. “Scandal would certainly get her noticed again.”

“You stylists are all noticed.”

“There are levels.”

Cinna sighs. “I am unfortunately aware of that.”

“Groan all you want, Cinna,” Septimus abandons his plate with a clatter on the table. “One day it will be you on that stage sharing the spot light.”

Cinna considers a sarcastic retort but recalling Septimus’ promise to ‘pay him back’ and with the way his life has progressed, well, it certainly could be possible.

The day of the reapings Cinna sits between Septimus and Clava, though Cinna think it’s hardly safer. Clava’s tribute holds her head up high, brown hair tight in a bun on top of her head and piercing green eyes. Septimus, to his credit, refrains from hitting Clava in her smug face. The boy, in contrast, sports short blond hair with a light curl who only stares straight ahead looking through everyone and everything. She is Rea Blain and he is Loren Hauges. When the reapings change over to district six, Septimus and Clava sit up straight as if on cue, tug their jackets into alignment and glare at each other over Cinna.

‘Oh shit,’ Cinna thinks.

Once the tributes arrive and the real drama beings. Septimus and Clava whisper at each other in the parlor while the prep teams finish up with the tributes. The whispers sound more like shouts with the way the two spit at each other, arguing over light bulbs and similarity and ‘my idea, not yours.’ (Cinna luckily has an outfit already made for their tribute in case of total chaos).

“Are they...” the little purple haired girl from last year – Cinna believes her name is Poppy – taps his shoulder. “Are they done? Loren is ready.”

“I’ll go,” Cinna inclines his head briefly at the bickering pair, “can you make sure they don’t kill each other?”

Poppy frowns. “Do I have to get in between them?”

“Just get a stick or something.” Cinna winks at her and circles around down the hall.

Cinna taps on the door and slips inside. Loren stands facing one of the walls as though inspecting the paint. His robe lies on the prep chair leaving him naked and apparently unconcerned about that. Cinna cocks his head and clears his throat. Loren’s eyes tick toward him but his body remains still.

“Hi,” Cinna smiles, “I’m Cinna.”

Loren turns his head and frowns. “You’re the stylist?”

“No, Septimus is.” Cinna points behind him. “That odd noise you hear out in the hall.”

Loren cocks his head and nods once. He shrugs then watches Cinna as he steps inside and closes the door. He lifts one hand, nail on the edge of his teeth then he stops suddenly and drops his hand.

“Don’t worry,” Cinna says, “Even if they fight every day I’ll make sure you have something to wear.”

“Because that matters so much.”

Cinna flips open his notebook, jotting down some notes about Loren’s measurements. “Believe me, Loren, it does.”

Loren sighs and looks unconvinced.

Cinna smiles with all the feeling he can muster. “Just remember, I’m here to help you, not hurt you.”

Septimus and Clava swing back and forth on ideas, trying to collaborate, trying to fight, trying to fix each other and undermine at the same time. Clava wants to dress them both in lights again. Septimus wants to dress them in silver. 

“Lights would draw attention and –”

“And tell everyone we do the same thing every year?”

“They are electricity!” Clava throws her notebook down on the table with a smack. “It’s perfect.”

“Use some imagination, Clava, or did district two burn you out of that?”

“You stupid –”

“You only have an hour!” Cinna insists. “And you had all day yesterday! Here, Septimus,” Cinna thrusts his notebook under Septimus’ nose.

“What is it?” Clava grabs for the paper, “Let me see!”

“Do your own designing, Clava,” Septimus replies with a smile.

“But that is not yours either, is it?” Clava retorts.

Cinna points at her. “It is now.”

They turn and jog down the hall away from Clava. Septimus smiles at Cinna and shakes him good naturedly by the shoulder.

“I take it you made this yesterday in case of this firestorm?”

“Of course.”

At the parade, Loren rides out with sleek sliver pants, a swirl of neon yellow going down one leg. He wears a matching silver jacket, chest bare, and the yellow accents look like currents of electricity. Perhaps the design is not as eccentric and eye catching as some but at least it is not idiotic. Clava fumbles after wasting time and throws Rea into a tight yellow dress with thigh high boots and a gold crown (matching Loren at least in the theme of yellow and metallic).

“I think that must have come out of her closet,” Cinna whispers to Septimus as the chariots roll down the street.

“Oh dear, you’re getting into the spirit of the rivalry, aren’t you?” Septimus grins.

“Just trying to make you feel better.”

The fighting between Septimus and Clava only intensifies during the training and into the day of the interview. Cinna tries to intervene, to make them calm down and focus on their tributes instead of attempting to cut each other down at every opportunity. Cinna worries Rea and Loren will suffer because Septimus and Clava won’t be able to spare five minutes to even enter their rooms.

“I am using silver for Rea so you can’t -”

“Don’t try that, Clava, I can put Loren in whatever color I please!”

Cinna steps closer, considering getting in between them. “Perhaps you should both -”

“No!” Clava puts up a hand. “Shut up!” Then she points at Septimus. “You used silver for the parade anyway and I know you won’t repeat.”

“Fine!” Septimus crosses his arms. “I won’t.”

Clava grins. “Perfect. Rea will certainly look far superior in the silver dress I’ve designed.”

“Ha!” Septimus throws up his arm. “‘Far superior?’ You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“I would rather my tribute die at the cornucopia dressed by me than live to be the victor dressed by you!”

“Hey!” Cinna shouts. “They are people!”

Septimus and Clava both turn to stare at him. Cinna puts his hands on his hips and glares at Clava.

“This isn’t about which one of you gains more attention, Clava, this is about them!” Cinna points behind him toward the corridor where their rooms lie. “This is about trying to help them just a little bit so maybe they’ll survive this madness!”

“Madness?” Clava frowns. “What are you talking about? And why should I even listen to you?”

“Because you are self involved and maybe you should care a bit about your tribute’s life. She’s a person and so is Loren.”

“Oh well!” Clava laughs. “Such a child you are.” She turns back to Septimus and points at Cinna. “And another thing, him.”

“Clava...”

“Oh, don’t you try to use you ‘patient’ tone Septimus, each tribute has a prep team and one stylist and yet here you are with this boy.”

“You know very well that Cinna is -”

“Is here to give you an unfair advantage? Oh, I see that!”

“Stop!” Cinna snaps. “Why don’t you argue after the games are over? It certainly isn’t gaining anything now.” Cinna breathes in slowly. “I am going to make sure Loren does not go on stage in his underwear, Septimus.” He then points at Clava. “And you should worry about Rea!”

Cinna snatches up the box he brought from the Boutique then turns and stalks down the hallway.

“Going on in his underwear would probably be better!” Clava calls after Cinna.

Cinna knocks on the door and slips into Loren’s prep room. Loren sits on a chair hunched over with his forearms on his thighs. He looks up at Cinna, face blank. Cinna holds up the box and attempts to appear encouraging.

“So, I won’t be going to my interview in my underwear?”

Cinna shakes his head. “No, you have a suit.”

Septimus makes a growling sort of noise out in the parlor again and they hear Clava squawk in reply. 

Loren sits up straight and sighs. “Are they always like that?”

“Well...” Cinna rubs his forehead. “It’s been building.”

“I guess I chose the wrong year to be selected as tribute.”

Cinna sighs. “As though there would be a right year?”

Loren stands up. “What does it matter? I’ll be dead in a day or a week or two. It’s only time now.”

Cinna puts down the box and clutches Loren’s shoulder. “Don’t think like that, Loren. It’s your life.”

“My life?” Loren chokes out a dry laugh. “My life ended the minute they pulled my name. I’m just a piece in the game now.”

Cinna drops his hand. “Well, try to make yourself more than that. You’re a person no matter what they try to turn you into.” 

Loren blinks and seems to finally focus on Cinna’s face. “How can I even think like that?”

“It’s your life, Loren. Value your life enough to try. You have to try to win because you _do_ deserve to live.”

Loren breathes in slowly and nods at Cinna. Then someone knocks on the door. It cracks open and Septimus pokes his head in. 

“Hello.” He smiles. “Have no fear; I do intend to do my job.”

Cinna raises his eyebrow but Septimus only shakes his head. “Let’s get down to it.”

The next day after the interviews - Loren keeps a smile in place to talk about his plan to use his brain to get out of any situation in the games - while the tributes are delivered to the arena, Cinna waits beside Alexa and her fellow mentor in front of their small arena screen. Cinna worries still that Loren is so disheartened about the entire thing he won’t even try to keep himself alive. Cinna imagines him staying on his circle waiting for someone to cut him down or worse running head long toward some career so they knife him.

“I hate this part,” Cinna mutters.

“The waiting or the cornucopia?” Alexa asks.

“Both.”

“Don’t you hate the whole thing?”

Cinna turns his head and Alexa stares back. After last year and Mara, Alexa sees him now as an aberration among Capitol citizens. He is one of the few not in love with the games. If only she really knew.

Suddenly, the screens burst to life and the announcer's voice booms above everyone welcoming them to the games as the tributes begin to rise up. The arena appears to be a desert - cactus and rock, sand mixed with hard red earth, no shade to be seen against a blazing sun.

“Wouldn’t it be perfect if our tributes were in silver now?” Cinna turns to see Clava beside him. 

“Where is Septimus?” Cinna asks.

Clava shrugs. “Oh, I am sure he’ll be along. But perhaps it is better he isn’t hovering around you at all times to shield you from anyone’s prying, isn’t it?”

Cinna crosses his arms. “Just what do you mean by that?”

She stares at him and smiles slowly. “Nothing.”

Then the count down hits three - all eyes zip around to focus on the arena screen and the shining cornucopia planted in the sand - two, one. The tributes jump off their spots and grapple for backpacks and weapons in a mass of speed. Cinna finds Loren among the chaos as he snatches a bag and throws it over his shoulders. Then he runs, not away from the battle, but through it.

“What is he doing?” Cinna hisses.

“Dying quickly,” Clava replies with too much humor.

However, Cinna realizes Loren’s aim when he ducks under the arm of another tribute swinging an axe. Loren picks up a clear canteen full of water just as he comes along side Rea. Rea throws a knife straight into the chest of a tribute in their path then the two of them run side by side away from the blood bath.

“Looks like they’re more cooperative than you and Septimus,” Cinna comments.

“For now.”

“Seems an apt strategy to me.” Cinna glances back at Septimus, now behind them, as he speaks. “They are in a desert after all.”

“They are in the _arena_ after all,” Cinna amends quietly.

The killing continues at the cornucopia for thirty minutes or so, one poor tribute from eleven used as target practice by the careers instead of gaining a quick death. The audience loves it and the betting tables over flow with people putting money down on different careers.

“Star from two to win!”

“No, no, Cash from one! He is a sure thing!”

However, as the hours pass Cinna learns the tributes in the game are not the only ones being watched. Where ever Cinna walks among the people - watching Loren with Alexa or talking with Finnick or just getting a bit of food - Clava follows. She watches him from across the room or somehow ends up standing beside him as he watches the screens.

“You are an odd boy, Cinna.” Clava never ceases to try and knock him down a peg by calling him ‘boy’ or ‘kid.’ “Where did Septimus find you anyway?”

“It is a very big city, Clava.”

“It is.” She continues to stare at him. “And yet he finds such a gem among it all?”

“How do you know I didn’t find him?”

She snorts. “He wasn’t exactly the big thing until a few years ago, was he?”

“Neither are you.”

Clava frowns and marches away. Cinna counts that as a ‘kill’ to his score board.

The actual Hunger Games continue in an increasingly depressing fashion as the search for water becomes the key goal. Five die from thirst during the first few days. Loren and Rea share their two bottles of water, rationing and surviving longer.

“I am not sure they will figure out the cactus,” Septimus comments, “there isn’t much desert in district five.”

Cinna knocks Septimus’ arm. “Well, we could send one of them something so they do figure it out.”

Septimus shakes his head. “Try selling that to a sponsor. Also, that is not your job.”

“Technically my job isn’t here at all.”

“No,” Clava suddenly appears beside the two of them, “no it isn’t. So why is he here, Septimus? Hmm?”

“Clava, your continued jealously is a positive light to my day.” Septimus smiles, all affection.

“And your ducking of questions is of continued interest to me.”

Cinna thinks he should be worried.

After a week Rea and Loren die from hunger. Though Rea figures out how to get water from the cactus, together they make poor survivalists, unable to find adequate food. They last as long as they can on the food in Loren’s pack but no further. Alexa and Michael try to encourage sponsors to send food to their failing tributes but neither one appears to be likely to win. They die weak and unconscious instead, faces burnt red under the sun. The only comfort Cinna finds in their situation was at least neither was alone at the end.

“Happy Hunger Games,” Septimus says to Cinna.

At the end, Amiee Mast of district four is crowned victor - her experience in spear fishing just as useful to spear lizards and people alike. Cinna finds Finnick at the after party, surrounded by sponsors looking for a handshake or a pat on the back for their ‘generosity.’ Cinna waits at the edges of the cluster, hoping Finnick will notice him or make an escape.

“Have you come to congratulate me?”

Cinna turns to Finnick suddenly beside him, the little sneak. “Do you want me to?”

“Certainly!”

“Congratulations on a tribute saved.”

“And made a victor.” Finnick grins. “She should take to it well, the fame at least. The rest? Well, we’ll see.”

Cinna raises an eyebrow. “The rest?”

Finnick shakes his head and does not answer. Instead he turns to look at Cinna. He glances around the room once then back.

“So, you’re still here?”

Cinna just nods.

“Did you... did you go back to...”

Cinna nods again. “I did.”

“And?”

Cinna sighs and lets his eyes wander over the crowd. “Too much had changed.”

Finnick touches Cinna’s arm and he turns back to Finnick. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

“Care for a dance then?” Finnick smirks in his ‘public face’ way which Cinna is starting to be able to recognize.

“You’re just trying to cause a stir again.”

Finnick holds out his hand. “It’s what these people live on.”

After the parties end and the banners come down, people grumbling about a return to ‘normal’ life, Cinna receives a phone call from Clava.

“I think the two of us should get together for lunch.”

“The two of us?”

Clava laughs and through the phone it sounds mechanical. “Why yes! You’re not chained to Septimus, are you?”

“You want to have lunch? With me?”

“Oh Cinna,” she laughs again and Cinna can see the fake expression through the phone line, “I just feel I don’t know enough about you.”

Cinna taps the back of the receiver with his fingers. “What do you mean? What more do you need to know?”

“Well, you work with Septimus; I work with Septimus. It makes us colleagues and we should really be on closer terms.”

“What is this Clava?”

“What do you mean?” Her tone is all innocence.

“You never wanted to know more about me before? A sudden change of heart?”

“Oh Cinna, it’s Septimus and I who fight, not you and I.” Then her tone changes and a chill runs up Cinna’s spine. “Unless there is something about you which would displease me perhaps?”

“Thank you for the invitation to lunch,” Cinna replies quickly, “but I decline.” Then he hangs up the phone.

Cinna sinks low into a chair and leans his head back against the edge. He hears foot steps behind him then Septimus comes into his line of sight and sits on a couch.

“Clava?”

“Yes.”

Septimus slides his hands together and tilts his head. “We may have a problem there.”

Cinna scoffs. “I’ve noticed.”

Their problem turns out to be akin to an intelligence attack. Clava visits the shop at least once a week to ‘talk’ to Cinna, asking questions about jobs before he worked for Septimus or who his friends are in the Capitol or where he went to school or his parent’s history. Cinna pushes her off with vague answers or, more often, informs her that he is busy and could she please stop bothering him? Septimus tells Clava time and again through patient words or angry shouts that she should stop inflicting her presence on his place of business.

Cinna knows they’re acting guilty and he knows it only increases Clava’s interest but what else can he do? He obviously will not tell her the truth and making up lie after lie will end up a disaster.

“She has to give up eventually,” Septimus reasons; “She has probably looked you up in the main citizen directory and there she would find all the ‘proper’ information about your citizenship.”

“I don’t think she’s the kind to just give up.”

Septimus frowns and cuts a ribbon with as much violence as his scissors can muster. “She has to.”

Then, finally, Clava comes to the shop just as they are closing, Misty and Lilac already gone home for the night. She walks past the ‘closed’ sign straight into the shop. In her hand she holds a roll of paper and from the smile on her face Cinna knows he is finished.

“It all makes sense now.” She waves the roll of paper slowly around in the air. “The mysterious background, appearing out of nowhere, the lack of fashion sense.”

“I have fashion sense not your fashion extravagance.”

“All the more lacking for you and it is no wonder.” She grins, bright blue lips against her pale powdered skin and long feathered eye lashes. “District eight.”

Suddenly the door to the back room opens and closes behind Cinna. He hears Septimus’ foot steps then his sudden stop.

“Clava?”

“Septimus, Septimus, Septimus, what a surprise to learn of what you’ve been up to!”

“Ah, I see. Cost you a lot to get into the expunged records, did it?”

Clava smiles more. "Nothing disappears,” She cocks her head and wiggles the paper. “There is always a way!”

Septimus steps up beside Cinna, hands behind his back. “What’s your plan then Clava? Expose Cinna? Expose me?”

“Oh, certainly. I want to ruin you.” She glares at Septimus and points between the two of them. “Both of you.”

“What good will it do, Clava? It won’t make you a more popular stylist or change your district in the games. All it will do is ruin my life and Cinna’s.”

“Maybe that’s enough for me.” She smiles, face like a viper.

“Clava,” Cinna admonishes, “You don’t need to do this.”

“But I _want_ to!” She steps forward and unrolls the paper. “I want to show everyone you’ve been leaning on this boy from the districts, Septimus, and you’ve broken the law by bringing him here, hiding who he really is. I want to watch you crumble!” Then she points to Cinna. “And I want you sent back where you belong!”

“How are you so vindictive?” Cinna shouts, real fear starting to seep in.

Cinna dislikes many things about the Capitol but he does not have a death wish. He does not want to become an avox or worse. Cinna knows mere expulsion back to district eight would not cut it. And what would happen to Septimus? 

“And why are you here?” Septimus breaks in before Clava can make another speech. “If you wanted to ruin me then why not just go to the council? The peacekeepers? Why not just throw us in the boiling water?’

Clava shrugs. “I suppose I wanted to see your face, Septimus.”

“Gloat...” Cinna whispers, his mouth dry.

“Maybe give you a chance to beg,” Clava adds with a sneer.

“Give me the paper.” Septimus holds out his hand.

Clava laughs, high and shrill and it sounds like death. “Are you serious?”

“Give it to me.” Cinna glances side long at Septimus because he has never heard Septimus’ voice so still and hard. “Now.”

Clava frowns. “I don’t think so. I paid quite a bit for this piece of paper.”

“Would you pay again if I took it?”

“Don’t you threaten me, Septimus.”

“You’ve threatened us!” 

Impulsively Cinna reaches forward, attempting to grab the paper while Clava is distracted by Septimus. His finger tips touch the edge of the paper but Clava jerks it away.

“Enough you...” her face morphs into one of disgust, “you district trash! Don’t think I won’t cheer to see the both of you strung up and left to hang. I will certainly see it! Prepare your epitaphs, gentlemen.”

She turns to leave but Septimus and Cinna lunge for her in one motion. Septimus grabs her arm and Cinna yanks at the paper. Clava spins with surprise, pulling all three of them off balance. Cinna slips and Clava hangs on the paper, holding it high above her head. Septimus pulls her forward, away from the door.

“Give it to me!”

“Let me go!” She hits Septimus in the face with her other hand, the paper fluttering to the floor. 

Septimus groans and loses his grip on her arm. They both stumble and Cinna dives for the paper. He hits the floor and snatches up the paper, ready to rip it or run in the other direction. Clava sees him and leaps over Septimus, heels and all, inches away from Cinna. Septimus grabs her ankle and she falls, knocking Cinna down with her, and tugging Septimus along.

“You can’t stop me!” Clava shouts, nails clawing at Cinna’s arms. “Give it to me!”

“Stop!” Cinna shouts.

Septimus tugs and pulls her off Cinna. She flips over and shoves Septimus hard in the chest so he knocks back and slams into the check out counter knocking a supply box to the floor with a crash. Septimus gasps in pain and lets her go. Cinna jumps up and staggers back, paper tight in his hand.

“Give that back!” Clava growls, lips pulled up like a snarl. “I _will_ expose you and you can’t stop me.”

She jumps forward and fists her hands in Cinna’s shirt. Her long nails rip his shirt and dig into his skin so Cinna cries out. This cannot be happening. Suddenly, Septimus appears behind her again and pulls her off Cinna, throwing her to the floor with one hand.

“Don’t touch him!” Septimus screams.

“You are both dead!” Clava leaps to her feet and lunges for Septimus.

Abruptly she stops in the middle of her momentum as if she hit a glass wall. Cinna stares, waits for her to spring to life again. Then Cinna sees the long scissors in Septimus’ hand plunged full in Clava’s chest. Clava and Septimus share the same shocked expression, eyes locked on each other. Then Septimus pulls back and Clava collapses to the floor. 

Neither Septimus nor Cinna move for a long moment then Septimus drops the scissor and stares down at his hands.

“Septimus?”

“This is regrettable.”

Cinna touches Septimus’ shoulder. “Septimus, step back, come on.”

“Hmm,” Septimus turns to Cinna, “I am having an odd moment of irony.”

“Irony?”

Septimus smiles without humor. “Scissors.”

Cinna blinks. “What?”

“Those scissors which I use to design for the Hunger Games, a thing which always leads to blood and death, and now I here I am using them far more literally.”

“Septimus, sit down.” 

Septimus and Cinna step back and sit on the bottom step of the spiral stairs a few feet away from where Clava lies. Septimus breathes slowly and stares at his hands. Blood coats four of his fingers and drips slowly onto his pants. Cinna pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and hands to Septimus.

“Everything you always said about the Games, Cinna,” Septimus whispers. “I know this isn’t the same but I suppose I understand a bit more.”

“About killing?”

“About how insane we here in the Capitol can be. So intent upon power we’ll ruin each other’s lives. Ruin the lives of other people without even thinking about that cost.”

“She could have even done worse than ruin us.”

“I meant what I did to you, Cinna,” Septimus wipes the blood off his hand, “when I took you away from your family.”

Cinna stiffens and feels an ache in his heart. He sighs quietly. “Septimus you didn’t -”

“I didn’t think? No. When I watched those games, saw your sister’s dress and learned about you, all I thought of was what attention you could bring to me; what your new designs would do to further my name and advance my position. I did not think about how it would change your life.”

“It’s too late now, Septimus. You can’t change any of that.”

Septimus sighs. “I never thought that... I never thought you would...” Septimus sighs again and tosses the now red handkerchief to the floor.

“You didn’t think you’d... care.”

Septimus and Cinna turn to each other then Septimus nods. “I _never_ thought I’d care about you so much.”

Cinna laughs once. “Surprise.”

Septimus laughs as well and shakes his head. “You’re quite the trouble, aren’t you?”

“Do you have any siblings?” Cinna asks suddenly.

Septimus tilts his head and smiles a fraction. “I had a sister, parents as well, in case you were in doubt of where Capitol citizens come from.”

Cinna raises his eyebrows with mock surprise then continues. “Were you always a designer?”

“I started out with hats.”

Cinna furrows his eyebrows. “Hats?”

“It was a phase.”

“What is your real hair color?”

Septimus chuckles. “Red.”

“I said ‘real,’ not preferred.”

“No, no, it is red, natural red though, more like carrot.”

Cinna peers at Septimus’ hair, black with silver high lights at the moment, and tries to picture plain red hair - red like Blake back in district eight. “Maybe you should let it go back to that sometime.”

Septimus leans back against the steps and only smiles. Then he looks sidelong at Clava, completely still on the floor with her blue jacket turning reddish brown. 

“How did this happen...” Septimus mutters.

Cinna stares at Septimus, somehow now the closest person in his life.

“I care about you too, Septimus.” Cinna says abruptly. Septimus jerks his head around and Cinna smiles. “I didn’t expect it either. Plus, it seems like now you’ve saved my life.”

“Balancing effect I suppose, kidnap you then save you?”

“Exactly.”

They smile at each other. Cinna almost laughs at the absurdity of such an emotional moment after one of violence; high emotion breeds high emotion. Cinna reaches out and grasps Septimus’ hand, squeezing once. Septimus squeezes Cinna’s hand back.

Then Septimus breaks their bond and says, “I do believe we have another pressing matter at the moment to deal with.” They both turn and look to the floor again. It seems so unreal. “Go ahead, Cinna.” Septimus stands up. “You are my family now and I take care of family.”

“I’m your fa…”

Septimus smiles. “For a long time, Cinna, you know that. Now go.”

Cinna hesitates a moment but at Septimus’ expression he only nods and creeps back upstairs to the apartment. Septimus does not tell Cinna what he does with Clava’s body and Cinna does not ask.

The investigation into Clava’s disappearance lasts for a month. Friends and her few relations are interviewed.

“We don’t associate outside of the game, I’m afraid.” Septimus tells them. “I am little help.”

A fashion rival gains head suspicion - Bilus Morden who wanted to buy out her shop - as well as her avox servant. However, no conclusive evidence of murder or reason as to her disappearance emerges and the case falls into ‘unsolved.’ Less people care than Cinna feared. He should be pleased but he also feels sad Clava should garner such so little response.

“Do not pity her now, Cinna,” Septimus advises, “she would have done worse to us.”

So, for once, Cinna decides not to care.

At the 73rd Hunger Games, Septimus allows Cinna to design the dress for their tribute’s interview. Cinna makes her a long tight gown which poufs at the very bottom around her ankles - off white fabric with hints of gold that compliment her short blond hair. The dress climbs all the way up to her neck and leaves her shoulders exposed. Cinna leaves a large circle in the back, sweeping low just above her hips so her strong muscles can be seen and the points of her shoulder blades. Cinna includes a stripe of gold embroidery over the white curving around her neck then crossing over her chest and curling low around the back until it comes around the front again near her feet - a jagged, spiky line like the path of a firework. She smiles proudly through her interview, the epitome of confidence and in the dress she is a goddess.

Her strength from years of climbing tall electricity towers keeps her alive in the games for a full week and a half, even killing one tribute by throwing a knife into his chest. But she dies when the Gamemakers decide to add some spice to the game and cause a rock slide from the towering mountains which fill half the arena.

After the games many of the stylists, and even some of the Gamemakers, ask Septimus about his riveting dress, a splendid and innovative design.

Septimus says, “As a matter of fact my protégée designed that dress, Cinna Bell.”

When Cinna comes to the 74th Hunger Games as a stylist all in his own right - “new blood, an amazing choice, one so very young, superb talent” the Gamekeepers say - they assign him district nine. However, by the time the tributes arrive in the Capitol, Cinna walks down the halls to present his design ideas to the girl tribute from district twelve.

[Cinna watches the reapings among the other stylists and suddenly the name ‘Primrose Everdeen’ is called for district twelve. Cinna watches Katniss Everdeen shove her sister away from the stage and shout, “I volunteer!” Cinna flies back in time - his sister marched to the stage, no one to volunteer for her, Cinna wishing he could save his little sister. There is Katniss, everything Cinna wished he could have been so many, many years ago.

Katniss could be the one to end all of this. Cinna can feel it.

Cinna walks from the viewing room and finds his way to Seneca Crane. He asks, “I would like to request district twelve.”]


End file.
